m 












-;,j*. 
f^^: 



TKe Portfolio of 
Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



This edition is limited 

to 100 copies of which 

this is number 

YD 



TKe Portfolio of 
Samuel G. McCIure Jr. 




PublisKed by Kis family for Lis friends. 
Youngstown, Onio, 

1922 



Copyright 1922. by 

S. G. McClurr 
Younustown, Ohio 



'^CU6i)8554 



MAR -7 1923 



-^"o 



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'Ho / 



FOREWORD 

A fev/ words may not be amiss in giving to the 
friends of the young author, whose tragic death 
touched all who knew him so deeply, these frag- 
mentary products of a pen that was just learning 
to respond to the mastery of his mind. 

His childhood and youth had been that of a real 
boy, care-free, fond of sports and all outdoor life, 
in love with nature, to whom study and books were 
secondary to the joyous realities of living. Much 
the same spirit pervaded his years preparing for 
college and his first year at Yale. 

In his second year began an awakening to the 
beauties of literature and with it a desire for expres- 
sion. Few, except two or three of his intimate 
college friends, knew of his ambition or of the ef- 
forts he made to achieve it. The discovery of 
what he had done, which is set forth in this little 
volume, came after his death and was a surprise 
even to the members of his family. 

It was in keeping with his modest and sensitive 
spirit that this should be the case. He was singu- 
larly free from every trace of egotism and was mod- 
est and diffident in appraising his own ability. He 
rarely talked of himself or his efforts or ambitions. 
His disposition was naturally retiring; not in the 
sense that he shrank from human contacts; quite 
the contrary; but he usually was more interested in 

VII 



the happiness and success of his friends than in 
narrating his own experiences or expressing his 
opinions. 

He had prepared for Sheffield Scientific School 
and entered there, after the armistice in January, 
1919. He had consented to this course on the 
advice of his father, but soon felt that it was not 
what he wanted. In the autumn of 1919, he trans- 
ferred and began the academic course at Yale. 

The war had stirred him deeply and had also 
seriously interrupted his preparatory studies. 
While in the senior class at Taft School, in the 
early months of 1918, in company with several of 
his classmates, he left the school to enter the serv- 
ice of his country. He was persuaded by his 
family to forego his desire to join the aviation 
forces because his elder and only brother at that 
time was in France. Later he entered the Naval 
Training School, with headquarters at Yale, con- 
tinuing in it till that force was mustered out after 
the armistice. He was disappointed not to have 
seen real service, as were thousands of other Ameri- 
can boys, but he gave up his ambitions out of regard 
for his parents in a fine spirit. 

While at Taft School he had been a member of 
the football eleven, a team that made the rather 
remarkable record, not only of not losing a single 
game, but of not being scored against. When he 
entered Yale he was naturally ambitious to make 
the University team and it v/as one of the "failures" 
he refers to in these intimate writings of his, that 
he did not. He was fond of all forms of athletic 
sports and an exceptionally fine swimmer. His 

VIII 



tragic death was due, not to his failure as a swim- 
mer but to a blow on the temple which he received 
in the water, probably by an oar which he kept 
near him in the thought that if any members of 
the party became exhausted it would be of value 
in getting them to shore. That oar, driven by 
the force of the waves, struck him on the temple and 
undoubtedly so injured him that he became im- 
conscious after bearing one of the young ladies of 
the party to shoal water. 

"He saved others, himself he could not save." 

This brief record of a fine life has led those who 
loved him most dearly to publish this little volume. 
It is done, not with the thought of exhibiting a talent 
for self-expression which was beginning to develop, 
but that those who also loved him might, through 
his writings, witness the beautiful unfolding and de- 
velopment of his mind as he grew into manhood. 

Usually this opening of the soul to fuller life 
is so hidden by modesty and diffidence that few 
are permitted to get even a glimpse of the marvel- 
lous process by which God helps the strivings of 
youth for expression. It was so with Samuel G. 
McClure, Jr. 

His work falls naturally into two classes, that 
written as possible contributions to college publica- 
tions, and the others for his own pleasure arising 
out of the need for self expression following some 
experience of significance to him. Naturally 
the latter class is peculiarly intimate and self- 
revelatory, showing a delicacy and sensitiveness of 
feeling which would have stirank from publication. 
There was nothing of the sentimental school-boy 

IX 



type of poet in him. Although his verse was often 
imperfect and youthful in subject-matter and in 
ability to master technical difficulties of form, it 
was honestly written, and at its best it transcended 
all difficulties in its outpouring of a fine and gener- 
ous nature. 

The growth it manifests in his Junior year at 
Yale seems to us to be worthy of this tribute; 
though if he had lived, he would have been the 
last to consent to the publication of what he would 
have regarded as very incomplete, imperfect and 
fragmentary. It is only because he gave his life 
to save others that his family has felt these revela- 
tions of his inner life with its sincerity, its high 
ideals, its grave and earnest questionings, and its 
silent ambition and striving might be circulated 
among those who knew him, as a memorial and a 
remembrance. 

His literary work falls into three parts by his 
own classification. The first in point of time he 
recorded in a little red leather notebook, whose fly 
leaf bears this inscription: 

"A collection of all sorts which appeal either in 
theme, words or rhyme. 



X 



Dedicated to 

Robert C. Bates and Prof. Eddie Reed 

who both opened my eyes to enjoy the poetical 

beauty around us. 

Begun Sunday, January 9, 1921. 

This collection, therefore dates from the middle 
of his Sophomore year. Robert C. Bates, of New 
York City, was a classmate and very dear friend. 
Of that friendship, Mr. Bates writes: 

"When first I knew Sam, I wondered at his 
quietness and was puzzled often to know what 
went on behind his blue eyes. They always 
seemed laughing and very deep. As our intimacy 
increased, I slowly began to find out— he was 
dreaming of many and often beautiful things. 
And as he let me in, little by little, into that inner 
life of his, I gloried more and more in the strength 
of his friendship. And we dreamt of the future, 
and planned, and wrote together. I think some 
of the happiest moments of my life I have spent 
with him. In his moments of discouragement 
and in his moments of elation, I have been with 
him, and his moods were merely the little clouds 
in the blue sky of friendship, all along the course 
of which, for two years and more, I watched him 
grow more content and happy in the opening up 
of new fields of interest: books, writing, music at 

XI 



times and the contemplation of much that is 
beauty." 

Not all that he attempted in the collection in 
the little red note book is published. But the 
selections made show his early earnest strivings 
for expression. Many of them bear a date and it 
is thereby possible to arrange his verse nearly 
chronologically. So far as may be done, the 
order of time has been followed in the arrange- 
ment of each of the three divisions: — verse, prose 
and drama. 

Samuel G. McClure. 



XII 



SAMUEL GRANT McCLURE Jr. 

Born in Columbus, Ohio, March 7, 1900. Re- 
moved with his parents to Youn^stown, Ohio, in 
August, 1906. Received his grade school train- 
ing in the Youngstown pul:>lic schools. Spent one 
year at Blair Academy, Hlairstown, N. J. En- 
tered Taft School, Watertown, Conn., in 1916, 
Class of 1918. Left Taft in February, 1918 to 
enter the aviation service but was dissuaded by 
his parents. T^ntered the Naval Reserve Train- 
ing Corps in June, 1918 as a member of the Yale 
Naval Training Unit. Began his work as Fresh- 
man in Sheffield Scientific School, January, 1919. 
Became a member of Vernon Hall, the Sheffield 
Chapter of Phi Gamma Delta fraternity, to which 
his father belonged. Entered the academic de- 
partment, Yale College, September, 1919, Class 
of 1923. 

Died, July 25, 1922, from drowning in Lake Erie, 
near Madison-on-the-Lake, Ohio, after having 
directed his four young companions to safety and 
after having personally borne one of the young 
ladies in an exhausted condition, to shoal water. 

"Greater love hath no man than this, 

that a man lay down his life for his friends." 



XIII 



IN MKMOKIAM. 

[In 1881, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote the 
following beautiful verses in memory of F. A. S., 
a youn^ man who had died in his early manhood. 
They are so appropriate here that we (juote the 
poem entire.] 

Yet, () stricken heart, remember, O, remember 
How of human days he lived the better part. 
April came to bloom and never dim I )(;ceml)er 
lireathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. 

DfK)med to know not winter, only Spriiij',, a bein^ 
Trod the flowery April blythely for a while, 
T(K>k his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing 
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to 
smile. 

Came and stayed and went, and now when all is 

finished. 
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, 
Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished 
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. 

All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, 
Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name, 
Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing 

season 
And ere the day of sorrow, departed as he came. 

XV. 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



SONNET a la SPENSER. 

All my life I've looked for her whose smile 
Would make me turn from foolish wanderings 
In sin; and still I seek in vain — meanwhile 
The gods force me to strive with meager things 
And, all alone, I fight failure's sharp stings. 
Why give up hope? Perhaps all unaware 
In some still grove where leafy tendrils cling 
I'll find her where rain-clouds have cleared the air 
If I do not yield now to temptings of despair. 

January, 1921. 



The Porlfolio of Sarnitrl (,. MrCliirt- .//• 



TO I . 

Dearest, if from my grace you seem to slip 
Don't think that I have ceased to care or crave 
Your fiery love; my own, 'twill warm my grave. 
But now, sunk deep in fellowship 
And in the art of making good, the drip 
Of wine in pewter mugs, the boasts so brave 
That shout supremacy with drunken lip. 
Are done. But when my days of work are o'er, 
I'll woo your love again with haste that springs 
To gain the precious moments lost. It soothes 
My soul to look ahead- so soon, once more. 
Will we entwine our hearts- and now, greetings. 
My love, we have to face life's ugly truths. 

January, 1921. 



The l*(>rl.f()li(> of Saninel (!. Mri'.hire Jr. 



i\ M EDI T ATI ON. 

In cities, far from rocks and t^lens, 

A thousand girls lead playful lives. 

They practise arts unknown to men 

Their ways arc strange, they would be wives 

Could they ensnare rich fools who, then. 

Would keep them in their paradise. 

I know one such and she is coy 
And worldly wise, though innocent. 
A most incongruous alloy : 
Pure gold, cheap tin, with adamant. 
A mystic force to this queer toy 
Attracts me when I would resent. 

What fiery blasts has she gone through 
What scorching molds that did not burn 
What hands have helped to shape her. too. 
Into a fine but empty urn? 
Could not love's crucible anew 
Refine this gold? In vain I yearn. 

February 9, 192 J. 



The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



The following tribute of one friend to another is 
dated March 4, 1921 and bears the initials R. C. B. 
It was written by Robert C. Bates to Samuel G. 
McClure Jr. 

R. C. B. to S. G. M., Jr. 

Then to thee, great friend — thanks— and again 
Thanks. All of life's best moments are when 

pain 
Is stifled by a little gleam of sun 
Or by the kindly nurtured thoughts begun 
In me and given you. Do not enhance 
The gift — it came, a God-given circumstance. 

March 4, 1921. 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



ORANGES AND APPLES. 

Two rooms I know, each different 
Yet both essentially the same. 
The one is occupied by three 
The other harbors but one name. 

The first deranged and much confused 

With furniture incongruous, 

Its men like liquor, love and song 

"Rag," "Blues" and "Jazz" that's monstrous. 

And in that room I live and grow 
Bitter and stale, unused to work. 
I hate their life, their joys, their pains — 
In oranges oft sour juices lurk. 

The other room, a haven of rest 
Is furnished in good taste and plain. 
And there I often wend my way 
From those whose empty lives are vain. 

An atmosphere of peace pervades 

This room. Though men should call him queer 

And literary, I find there 

Sweet meat of apples, precious, dear. 

April, 1921 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



TO DAD A TELEGRAM. 

Off probation : feeling pretty fine 
Lowest mark 66, highest 89 
Roommate means good deal to me this term 
Am bitten by ambition's deadly germ. 
No more smoking nor wasting time, 
Hoping for track or class nine. 
I'm broke- spending my last dime- 
Bacon's thoughts on liberality are mine. 

May, 1921. 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCAure Jr. 
DREAMS ON READING LAMB. 

If I could only write a bit and write that little bit 

well, 
If my work were only in demand -if it would only 

sell, 
Then I'd be free my way to go, independent of my 

dad, 
I'd marry, settle down abroad, and then I would 

be glad. 
For I'd be living out my dream of childhood once 

again, 
And in some English manor house I'd get away 

from men. 
I'd spend my time in reading or write in stately 

vein 
And I would raise a family there in simple life 

mundane. 
I know the girl I'd pick to share those quiet joys 
She's roguish -playful often bad, but she'd like 

lots of boys 
And I would let her be as wild as she has longed to 

be 
Yet in a harmless natural way within my bound- 
aries. 
And all day long she'd play in gardens overgrown. 
With fruit trees climbing high stone walls, where 

all might eat unknown 
Through which, between green mossy banks, 

would run a stream for trout 
And none should touch these golden things as long 

as she's about. April, 192 J. 

7 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



TO AN OPEN WOOD FIRE 

To you who have helped great thinkers 
Poets and authors — without end, 
I sing my praise; pleading aid 
Toward all my ambitions' trend. 

Oh, lend to my feeble endeavors 
The Divine spark of immortal flame, 
Impart to my work the beauty 
Your red-gold ashes claim. 

From nondescript heaps of hewn logs 
Green and young, your glory lies. 
Do I presume if I ask thy breath 
Transform my weary sighs? 

May, 1921. 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



(Six months intervene between his early work 
and the following, to which he had given no title, 
but which shows what progress had been made 
during the first year of his struggle for expression.] 

I know tonight I love you dear 
F'or it was forced on me terrificly. 
I had been playing with a girl, 
A town girl with a wicked lure, 

And as I watched her writhe and shake 
And twist in the contortion of the dance 

Shocked was I at how cheap a thing 
Was she. How thin her dress and soul! 

And what an awful dance it was! 
I saw in that mad, painted crowd 

Faces of cheaper, more disgusting wrecks, 
Who once were girls, yet were no more. 

And then I saw a clean pale lass, 
In a white gown, with clear blue eyes. 

And she alone, of all the mob, looked pure 
And innocent. And then I thought of you. 
Sweet Ming, and loved with all my heart. 
November 12, 1921. 



Thf Portfolio of Sanniel (J. MriUure Jr. 



I MEAN TO SHUN. 

I mean to shun short paths that trend 
Toward the loose and careless, lazy mood. 
From now on I my ways must mend: — 
Good habits thrive on thoughtful food. 
For now I have a purpose and an end 
That drives me on with quickened blood. 
One that my fondest dreams could not transcend 
'Twill not be drowned in life's mad flood. 
Of God above I ask a longing prayer 
O, keep my image before her fair. 

January 8, 1922. 



•10 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



THREE GIRLS. 

I know three girls, clean through and through 

And of these three I really love but one. 

To her alone 1 would be always true 

Whose tender love. I think- nay, hope - I've won. 

And still, in solitude, I dream each good 
I see the wonders each possesses there, 
For each stands out above all womanhood 
In purity, and loveliness so fair. 

One I admire lor winsome impudence. 

Her saucy wit and entertaining laugh; 

She is my opposite in height and sense. 

And she attracts with sparkling eyes, mere chaff. 

The next I like for her expedient style 

Her dignity and self-possession cool; 

And she will be fair-faced -well-formed a while; 

The man she'll marry is a rich, weak fool. 

But my girl is the only one, I'll swear 
That I can ever love, I know, I feel; — 
Her hair and eyes are quite beyond compare 
Her charm refreshes, rests, and then appeals. 

January 25, 1922. 



11 



Tfw Portfolio of Samuel (>. McClure Jr. 



PIl I LOSOPll KR DIGIT. 

Love's llame needs fuel to feed upon; requires 
Material wealth, a home, and long-firm friends, 
Just as the slow devourin.n llame of fire 
Requires fresh logs for its long life, or ends. 

Ours was enkindled as by dry, thin boards, 
Which, quickly catching, leapt to greater heights 
Than our hearth's confines warranted; pale swords 
Soon fall, as chimney's s(X)t, be-sparkling lights. 

We must not let our love turn thus to ash, 

Lacking supplies obtained laboriously. 

That sweet, pure glow nor sct>rched nor blackened 

trust — 
But turn to gold its kindling, instantly. 

So we must wait and nourish steadily — 
Yet keep from sparkling forth as it survives — 
Till we can fan to flame with souls quite free 
And build our love throughout inspired lives. 

January 25, 1922. 



12 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 
YEARNINGS. 
Many hours she had watched from her window, 

Her pale face glued fast to the pane, 
Till a light 'cross the way lit the darkness 
Flooding the soul it sustains. 

O she knew it was wrong and quite wicked 

Yet ever drew near to the glass, 
Her dark eyes gleaming and glowing 

Like stars through a dark-clouded mass. 

And she looked with a breathless delight 
On its bright, waving, shadowy beams; 

Now obscured by a shupc that it hallowed, 
Now clear as sun-lighted dreams. 

She was conscious of passionate yearnings 

Hitherto long dead in her heart. 
For a time she forgot she was passive. 

Acting stirred Love's counterpart. 

Now the form that attracts her attention 
Sometimes bows, and blows a light kiss, 

Sometimes sways in a dance of queer gestures 
Which holds, in a trance, this strange miss. 

Then, in turn, she responds in shy manner 
And turns on her light, smiling fair; 

Well she knows the effect on her lover 
Of combs, silken hands, run through hair. 

But she, conscious of passions and yearnings 

That invalids have to restrain, 
Was yet doomed for life to an armchair, 

Unable Love's joys to attain. f.bruary is. lo^'- 
13 



The Portfolio of Samuel d. McClure Jr. 



AD SEIPSUM. 

Parcus deorum ultor et infreqtiens . . . .Horace 

i.iixr. I, xxxir. 

Strange gods are with us overniuch now 'days, 

In towns and cities we see all around 

Naught else but man-created homeliness, 

Part bad, part fair, but wholly incomplete 

And lacking unity; a sorry job, 

Conglomerate of many thousand minds, 

Cross-purposing, — in many cases done 

With insufficient funds or skill, immorally. 

But creeping through this desecration stark, 

Nature's unthwarted beauty everywhere 

Delights our souls by mingling gracefully 

Its greys and greens of wondrous gothic art 

That, clothing, hide a naked, ugly earth 

With oft-repeated robes of loveliness, 

As setting suns transform dull clouds to glowing 

light. 
Had we no handmade idols to detract 
From worship of thy greatest, litt'lest work, 
The world would be a better place; w^e, better men. 

February 26, 1922. 



14 



The Portjulio o/ Samuel (J. Mcdlnre Jr. 



RUMINATIONS OF A MUSE. 

This world is one we can't remake 
By hasty scheme or deed; 

Slowly we learn by sad mistakes- 
impulsiveness makes hearts bleed. 

How cruel we are unknowingly, 
How selfish, vain, unwise! — 

Selecting love too hastily: — 
To awake with wide-open eyes. 

Then childish judgments are broken 
And new friendships appeal; 

Yet are we less outspoken. 
Have we less of the old-time zeal? 

The quest of life is before us still 
Our dreams, not all shattered, behind. 

Let Fate meet us with strengthened will, 
Ennobled hearts, trained minds. 



15 



The Portfolio of Stwincl C. McClure Jr. 

Unpublished Letters. 

Recently the world was shocked at the dis- 
covery of some hitherto unpublished letters of 
Alexander Pope, written after his lecture tour in 
America (this note was iiis) 

TO JONATHAN SWIFT. 

Were you alive today, with your great power. 
You would not stoop to waste a single hour 
Satirizing evils of America's Yale. 
No. the subject's too small, for you, too stale. 
But were you a studonl there, somehow I feel 
You'd be stirred to ridicule with utmost zeal. 
Would you, I wonder, cause laughter with your 

prose. 
Poke fun at the heated Town-and-Gown's vain 

blows? 
Or smile at class feeling let loose in the winter 
Snowball lights, broken glass, paid for by each 

dollar? 
Or bitterly assail the queer research Professor, 
Famed for h^s findings on lly protein matter, 
But unable to teach well the most elementary 

drool. 
Forcing many to poverty through the tutoring 

school? 
Would chapel be so vigorously defended 
Could you only see the coughs there mended? 
Dwighl Mall would surely attract your praise 
For its good grill, and the leaders it helps to raise 

16 



The Portfolio of Samuel (j. Mrdlure Jr. 

You would not, I trust, be so unwary 

As to say fraternities arc unnecessary. 

They do a man more good than harm besides 

They draw friends closer and arm with pride. 

They are not as some say mutual admiration 

groups 
They sort out great men show others they're 

dupes. 
It's quite true often relatives and friends 
Serve to defeat plutocracy's ends. 
But who cares? Soon the admitted one 
Will become a big man through association. 
No, Jonathan, were you alive today 
You would descry the national decay. 
Movies, bad plays, the failure of the League 
Anything but these, these prickly little weeds. 



17 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



LETHE . 

Tonight why did I see you standing there? 

How could I recognize, yet cut you dead? 
Why did we ever secret love declare. 

Or dream sweet dreams while wasting hours 
quick fled? 

Pray don't be wrongly grieved at me, old dear. 
Mean things like me should trouble you no 
more. 
Life is a shining net unseen, yet clear 
That frightful fates, gone mad, fish with off- 
shore 

And e'er enmesh blind, struggling forms galore:— 
Yet some escape its foils so easily. 

Why can't we find the path the swordfish tore 
And swim away into eternity. 

The woeful past all done, the future all before? 

March 14, 1922. 



18 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



A DIVERSION. 

I'm a jolly old alligator 

I lie in the mud all day 

And think what the scientists call me— 

What would my ancestors say? 

They say I'm the phylum reptilia 
Sub-class anemia, too. 
I evolved from the little mud puppies 
When the lands went dry of all dew. 

All life comes from the lowest 

The simple multiple cell 

That divides, grows, divides by the thousands. 

Cannot see, hear, taste, love or smell. 

As I ponder on all this wisdom 

In my warm basking mud all day long 

I lazily lower my eyelids 

Smile, wink and the silence prolong. 



19 



Thr Porlfolio of Samuel G. McChire Jr. 



MY DESIRES. 

Three things I must do ere I die 

And these are tasks for no mean man. 

First, I must build me a real home, 
Where love and family life can live,-- 

(Not a big barracks full of open rooms)— 
A rambling home with long, low wings 

Furnished in rare good taste luxuriously. 

Next, 1 must lay the cornerstone 
Of a wonderful clubhouse here at Yale. 

To take the place more admirably 
Of the one to which 1 now belong. 

For it is poor, — yet still it is our best. 
It makes it hard for us to get good men 

To join our friendly brotherhood. 

And last, I must accomplish — ere I die 

Some bit of verse or writing clear, 
A famous work a future age holds dear. 



20 



The Portfolio of Samuel (>. Mcdliire Jr. 

II 
PROSE. 

Unlike his efforts in verse, none of his prose 
work bears a date, but in its form and composition 
it carries evidence that it was written in his sopho- 
more and junior years at college. The essay on 
Dr. Horace Taft, master of Taft School, Water- 
town, Conn., may be an exception, probably dat- 
ing from his freshman year. He had taken his 
preparatory course at Taft and, in common with 
all Taft students loved and revered Dr. Taft. 
The manuscript bears his professor's endorsement 
"I agree with you." We include it chiefly because 
it mirrors the ideals of its writer. 

The other prose work, with the single exception 
of the article on athletics at Yale, which grew out 
of disappointment over his failure to make the 
football team, and which contains suggestions 
that might seem worthy of serious consideration 
from college authorities, is in the form of short 
stories, many of them incomplete, and one de- 
scription of a night ramble in winter. 

Perhaps there is little unusual in any of this 
work, but we cannot but feel that uch 
flashes of description as that which speaks of the 
air of a winter night tingling with "exhilarating 
unreality" reveal a perception and an apprecia- 
tion of nature that was fine and true and held dis- 
tinct promise of future growth. 

The sketches are arranged, as nearly as we may 
judge, in the order of their production . 

21 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



HORACE TAFT. 

It is hard to find a man in our generation who 
has accomplished great things and yet captures 
the love of his fellowmen so that they idealize him. 
There will be many Americans like Hoover and 
Wilson, and even William Howard Taft, Horace's 
brother, who will occupy great places in history. 
Why, then, should I pick an unknown for my 
choice as the man of our day who approaches 
nearest to the ancient prophets? 

I choose him partly because he was my boyhood 
ideal as he has been of so many young fellows — 
in fact, of all with whom he has come in contact, 
so as to know him. I think him great, because, 
while only a headmaster in a boy's preparatory 
school of his own creation, yet he is turning out a 
high type of manhood and doing a great work. 
Moreover, he is absolutely honest with himself 
and all men, refusing a deanship of Yale College, 
becL;use he did not believe himself to be a 'big' 
enough man for the place, and also because, I 
suspect, he believed that his best work, in charac- 
ter formation, would not be allowed full scope and 
would not accomplish the best results in work with 
men already of well-formed characters. 

The qualities that endear him to his friends are: 
first, absolute unselfishness; second, tireless pur- 
suit of his ideal; third, a high sense of honesty and 
honor; fourth, a hospitality and fine consciousness 
of manners : and lastly, a forcefulness and winning 

22 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

personality in speaking. Surely he is a 'right 
perfect gentleman.' 

Mr. Taft is a tall man about six feet four and 
far from stout. He has greyish white hair and a 
large white moustache. A wonderful smile and 
twinkling, understanding eyes complete his physi- 
cal attractions. He has remained a widower since 
his wife, whom he worshipped, died in 1905. By 
example, and by illustration and also by exhorta- 
tion he teaches and instructs. It is no wonder 
on alumni day, when all the 'old' boys are back 
again, that they rise, applaud and cheer for 
minutes at a time when the chairman announces, 
"Gentlemen, the King." 

Such is his nickname and such he surely is, and 
I for one can only clap my hands and yell, "Vive 
le Roi!" 



23 



The Portfolio of Samuel (i. McClure Jr. 



ATHLETICS AT YALE. 

(An unsuccL'sslul undergraduate speaks his mind.) 

There are plenty of men in Yale better qualified 
to write this than I ; plenty who know more about 
the present system of Athletics than I ; but there 
can be none who have suffered more through its 
defects or whom an outspoken thought can harm 
less. 

A.t the present time all the sporting world is 
discussing the question of collegiate football, of 
the evils of commercialization of all sports by 
Harvard, Yale and Princeton~(by that I don't 
mean the use of tramp-athletes -I mean com- 
mercialized in the sense of being run as a business 
venture). And all that has been said has been 
uttered by university presidents, coaches, Board- 
of-Control chairmen and newspaper writers. I 
shall try to say what a duffer of an undergraduate 
athlete thinks. 

First, it seems to me, we shall have to come to 
President Lowell's suggestion — a shorter schedule. 
We shall have to do this if we hope to increase 
Yale's prestige in Athletics. The evils of the 
present system do not seem to me to be too much 
interference by coaches on the sidelines, as Mr. 
Mendal points out so well; rather they are faults 
of too long schedules and faults of improper con- 
ditioning. 

A long string of games with squeedunk colleges. 

24 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

with their glorious traditions of never having more 
than fifty undergraduates, neither contributes to 
Yale's reputation -win or lose — nor does it con- 
dition the men properly. If we win all the minor 
games, some calculating fool on the squad is al- 
ways comparing scores with the scores of our 
rivals, and undermining the morale of the team. 
Moreover, such a series of victories can only have 
one result; they make the team overconfident of 
their own ability. And if they are not victories- 
as they often are not— the effect is hopeless, both 
on the team and the spirit of the undergraduate. 

But, President Lowell points out, victories are 
not the purpose of athletics— the purpose is the 
training of the individual. If that statement is 
true, Athletics at Yale is a rank failure. I have 
only to point to the great men wlio, by their won- 
derful perseverance and courage, have come up 
from the ranks of mediocrity to fame. Their 
numbers in the past few years have been growing 
more and more — praise be — but still they are 
such rare phenomena as to furnish table-talk for 
weeks afterwards. 

Why is this? Simply because all the best 
coaching is given the first team; because the squad 
is often cut; because the poor duffer gets no en- 
couragement or little chance to play the game or 
improve. 

These statements have been made before; they 
are not new. I make them again because the 
conditions back of them have not been changed. 

25 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Let me show what I mean by an example. Say 
Smith has played prep, school football on a small 
scale. He goes out with the squad of fifty or a 
hundred men. He is not distinguished by a great 
amount of beef and brawn, but he knows a little 
bit well. He is placed on Billy Bull's squad. He 
scrimmages against the varsity or second team 
about two afternoons a week; maybe more if he is 
good or lucky. But say he shows grave faults — 
does anyone tell him them? Say he misses tackle 
after tackle — does anyone send him over for an 
hour's work on the dummy? And when Saturday 
comes around, he sits in the stands and watches 
from afar. 

Take a better example from another sport. 
Jones hurts his shoulder in a bad fall on the ice. 
Up to this time he has been playing on the first 
team. It heals slowly and when he comes back, 
he finds the half-hour-a-day practise not enough 
for him to get in condition. He loses out, because 
of lack of enough work. 

One can find cases like this in all the sports. In 
basketball, how many men have dropped because 
they were placed on the second or third teams and 
waited from seven to nine every night watching 
the first two teams practise or play against the 
K. C's. And then perhaps they would scrimmage 
for an hour with no particular attention from the 
coach. 

From these plentiful examples we can easily see 
the individual is not trained. Indeed, he is often 

26 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

discouraged because he does not improve; dis- 
heartened because he can not play enough to im- 
prove and because he feels he is forgetting all 
about the game that he learned in prep, school. 
He looks around him and sees a waste of material 
on all sides and he turns away in failure; or if he is 
built of better stuff, succeeds in spite of his ob- 
stacles. When such a case happens, the coaches 
point with pride at their system which made it 
possible; but the undergraduate knows where 
credit is due and gives the man his full share of 
honor. 

What would be an ideal system to have at Yale:* 
The league games, the class system has not suc- 
ceeded. If we cut down on schedules, the profits 
will be cut down. If we enlarge squads and plan 
for more individual instruction, a larger coaching 
personnel and larger facilities are needed. How 
can this be done? 

I think a system could be worked out that would 
eliminate all the evils of the present one and yet 
give us the advantages. I believe all the football 
men could be split up into, say a dozen, squads 
of two teams each, with their coaches and own 
field; each with its insignia and name and individ- 
ual style of play. 

I can see no reason why, on Saturday, contests 
of excellent football between these squads would 
not draw just as big crowds to the Bowl as con- 
tests like the Vermont game. Then a staff ot 
coaches would pick an all-Yale team of the various 

27 



VV^f Porlfolio of Samuel G. McCAure Jr. 

stars which would practise together for two or three 
weeks for the one big game of the season — that 
with Harvard. Perhaps also a second all- Yale 
team could meet the Army or Princeton. The 
members of these two teams would get their Y, 
the members of the squad their minor F Y B. 

Such a system could be worked out in other 
sports with equal satisfaction and success. The 
only necessary requisite would be a fine statT of 
coaches, who would be willing, if necessary, to set 
the example to their men to keep training by not 
smoking on the field- a large enough auditorium 
for the tremendous crowds that would attend the 
big games of hockey, baseball and basketball, and 
a thoroughly different spirit of participation by 
the whole undergraduate body. 

Let us not sit back supinely as does the 'News' 
and say that the present system will last a good 
long time yet; let us by all means agitate for a 
better, more securely-built foundation to our 
Athletics— for the good of Yale. Let us see Yale 
take the leadership in this idea which Harvard 
has had the wisdom to suggest and let us see a 
new era of sport for the undergraduate and for the 
highest good of Yale. 



*28 



The Porlfnlio of Samuel (L MriUure Jr. 



THE RETURN. 

As 1 look back on it now, it was all shadowy, 
vague. I know not how I got there, or why. I 
was in the midst of a great crowd, all pushing, 
hurrying along, eager to get somewhere. Sudden- 
ly in the distance 1 lieard the roar of a train, and 
far ahead 1 saw, silhouetted against the horizon 
of the plain, the long mail train slowing down to 
stop before a large wooden station. In the same 
moment, among the people who had come to meet 
the mail, arose outcries and exclamations of 
wonder. And there in their midst I saw what 
had caused such an outburst, and I gazed in 
admiration too. For what held us spellbound 
was the spectacle of a bank messenger carrying 
great bags marked with dollar signs and with 
green bills protruding — running alone unarmed, 
braving — almost inviting, a holdup. When his 
fearlessness and boldness won out, and he reached 
the protection of the trainmen, a great muflled 
roar of applause swelled up. 

The train pulled out slowly and we turned back 
toward the town. But before the excitement of 
the messenger had been forgotten we were swept 
off our feet by the terrifying figure of a masked 
rider, pointing two pistols at the driver of the 
small mail car. And we knew by his coolness 
that his plans had been carefully arranged — and 
there must be a greater prize in the little truck 
than was in the messenger's money bags. We 

29 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

were all wrought up to the highest pitch of emo- 
tion, and we hurried forward to see the completion 
of this drama. 

Before we could get near, something happened — 
not according to the prearranged scheme. There 
was a shot; one of the guards fell, the other grap- 
pled with the bandit. His weapons were torn 
from his grasp and he ran staggering to a clump 
of underbrush. But the crowd had him nearly 
surrounded ; there was no escape for him that way. 
I turned to my companions and yelled : 

"Spread out, spread out, we'll get the devil yet." 

And I dived into a bush at the left side of the 
road. They obeyed me, and I found myself all 
alone and very much afraid. 

From where I was, I could overlook the mail 
car, standing deserted in the road. After a few 
minutes waiting, during which the pursuit seemed 
to die away far ahead of me, I noticed a man with 
his cap pulled down over his eyes, sauntering up 
to the truck. He reached inside and drew forth a 
small package, round, and no larger than a base- 
ball. This he tossed directly towards my hiding 
place. Stooping he picked up one of the aban- 
doned revolvers. Then he started toward me. 

Almost paralyzed with fright, and only too 
conscious of my helplessness, I acted automatical- 
ly. I picked up the sphere and put it in my 
pocket. Waiting until he was almost upon me, I 
let out a roar, and made a flying tackle. I hit 
him squarely in the middle taking him out com- 

30 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

pletely. In the scuffle that followed, his cap came 
off and I got a good look at him. 

"My God! You are my own — " 

I awoke and heard steps in the room next my 
bedroom and realized that my subconscious mmd 
had been trying to convey to me the fact that my 
roommate had just returned from the Shubert. 



31 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCAure Jr. 



A SAD CASE. 

An accurate observer of human character right- 
ly comes to the conclusion that man is weak. To 
prove this theory, it is only necessary to point to 
the fact that, when a man fails because of the lack 
of a few important qualities, he invariably con- 
tracts new habits which are often dangerous and 
ruinous. 

I was alone in Paris in the first months after 
we entered the war. I had no friends and did not 
speak the language; so when, in looking over the 
hotel register, I came across the name of John 
Salisbury from New Haven, Conn., U. S. A., I 
immediately looked him up and invited him to 
dine with me. He was very agreeable and when 
he learned I had attended college at New Haven, 
became very friendly. I probably would not 
have picked him for a friend at college, because 
his general appearance and personality were 
against him, but over there it's different. Yet he 
was far from repulsive. He was of medium height, 
had dull red hair, eyes small and set closely to- 
gether, large thin nose and a rather homely chin. 
His face had an unnatural pallor, but he did not 
look dissipated. On the whole, I rather liked 
him, attracted by the originality and mystery 
which marked the man. 

After dinner, over our cigars and a bottle of 
wine, I told him my history in a few words. Then 
I asked him his. He was almost evasive at first, 

32 



The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

but the wine soon had its effect and he startled 
me with his story. 

He began with his early life. 

"My father was a professor. He desired me to 
master nothing but knowledge. I was educated 
in booklore by the best private tutors until I was 
seventeen. Then I entered Yale." 

"Why, you never told me you were a Yale 
man " I exclaimed. 

"I never was, really. You see, 1 knew nothmg 
of the world, had no athletic ability or training 
and was as green as they make 'em. At college I 
was lost, overwhelmed by what I saw and learned. 
At the end of the first term I had to resign on ac- 
count of a nervous breakdown. 

"1 came over here because our family physician 
advised it. The change was good for me, I guess. 
But I found I could not sleep at night. I was 
troubled by exaggerated dreams of unpleasant 
things in college life. Night after night, I would 
wake in a cold sweat from a dream of the most 
vivid impressions of terror. 

"You cannot imagine what 1 suffered. Finally 
I decided I would escape from these nightmares. 
I resolved to try opium." 

"No, really," I murmured. I did not mean to 
be sarcastic, but I thought Salisbury was drawing 
on his imagination. 

"Yes. I had no trouble getting it." 
"You smoked it?" I inquired. 
"Yes." 

33 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. MrCVurr Jr. 

"What were the effects?" 

"I was no longer John Salisbury, but John of 
Salisbury. I was transported back to the middle 
ages. I found myself attending not modern Yale 
but the University of Paris. A wonderful picture 
was shown me of the life of the student of that 
period. 

"I found I liked the atmosphere of the Univer- 
sity. In spite of the queer clothes— consisting of 
long, flowing robes, short scarf, skull-cap and 
short shoes, there was a democratic plainness that 
I admired. I found that most of the students 
were poor, the majority working their way by 
various hard tasks. There were no organizations 
among them, except mutual benefit societies, 
which helped out those in financial difhculty. The 
masters lived with us, ate with us, and were our 
real friends. The young men, my fellow class- 
men, lived the same life, all being on good terms, 
existing without rivalries or jealousies, because 
they had no outside interests, no athletics, no 
fraternities, no politics and no nobility, except the 
real nobility of birth or of the clergy. And these, 
let me add, did not bother us at all. 

"Moreover, there were no poorly- written text 
books that only confuse a subject and make it 
difficult. Although we had to attend lectures 
and take copious notes seven hours a day, yet 
when classes were over, there was no poring over 
any homework and the aim of the students was 
to learn as much as possible. 

34 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCAure. Jr. 

"There were drawbacks, of course. I found a 
small group of men who, like the rounders of 
Yale, went in for physical pleasures and spent 
most of their time in wine shops, but they were 
honest about it all and were not looked down upon 
by the rest of us. Indeed, if one of them got in a 
serious scrape, we would all stand back of him, 
college authorities included, until he should be 
released from prison. Several times so much feel- 
ing was aroused that rioting broke out, only to be 
stopped by the surrender of the student." 

Through this eloquent description, I was hardly 
a rapt listener. While the wine had made him 
more voluble and excited, it had the opposite 
effect on me and I was becoming drowsy. Still, 
I was amused and decided to keep him talking. 

"And was that the only pipe dream you ever 
had?" I asked. 

"No, sometimes 1 have that and sometimes I 
have a dream of the ideal modern college." 

"Now you're talking But I have those myself 
and without any opium." 

"But never like these. These are real pictures, 
colored with a golden glow, like a freshly green 
wood in a spring sunset." 

I began to think that the man across the table 
from me was not lying to me at all and I took more 
heed to his words, thinking that perhaps something 
truly great had come to this drugged mind. 

"My modern college was a queer place. I was 
in the midst of a very representative group of 

35 



The Porlfolin of Samuel G. McCAme Jr. 

young men, but they were all separated. It seems 
there were different schools, something like the 
different colleges at Oxford or Cambridge. The 
freshmen would all start in at one large school, 
where they would remain only as long as was re- 
quired to classify them for the individual colleges. 
Of these there were countless numbers. 

'There was one for the athletes, the men who 
sought to develop their bodies alone. These men 
were ruled with an iron hand; they had to keep 
training, but their schedules were very light and 
arranged so as to give them a great deal of time 
for athletic work. 

"There was a school for the men who desired 
only to study. These men enjoyed the best pro- 
fessors and had the hardest courses and they were 
encouraged to be as eccentric, erratic and irregu- 
lar as they pleased. 

"Another was for social figureheads, the men 
who loved to dress and go to dances, but who en- 
joyed a clean life of luxury. 

"And in the same way there were colleges for 
rounders; for those of little intelligence; several 
for women; many for Jews; and so on. 

"To get into these colleges from the common 
freshman one, was a mark of distinction, a reward 
for faithful service, by the college authorities. 
Thus men were encouraged to do their best and 
no ability was wasted. 

"Other features were most strange. The men 
in the common college had to wear a uniform dress, 

36 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

clothes entirely modern, but ready-made, of 
black wool, cut in conservative style. There was 
nothing freakish or military about these; they 
were fashionable and could be worn without at- 
tracting attention in any large city." 

"But," I asked anxiously, "what becomes of the 
fraternity?" 

"It is gone." 

"Are there no societies?" 

"Yes, there are honorary societies. The first 
ten percent of the graduating class are elected by 
a majority vote of the men in their schools. These 
societies are all different, of course, each belonging 
to its particular school. They are secret and 
much like our modern institutions." 

On hearing such nonsense, I became rather 
bored, and since it was getting late, stated my in- 
tention of retiring. We parted politely, both ex- 
pressing the desire to meet again. 

But the next day, I received my orders to report 
at a training camp and I never saw nor heard of 
my misguided acquaintance again. 



37 



Thr Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 



CAUSK AND EFFECT. 

It was a sweltering August day, the hottest of 
the summer, and Hill Koper, cub reporter, was 
literally worn (Hit. Almost all the oppressive 
mornin.m he had been Irampin.c: the narrow streets 
of the dirty, downtown district of the Steel City, 
where the fierce rays ot the sun were reflected 
with agonizing force from the melting pavements. 
A slight south breeze but added to his discomfort 
and swept the clouds of pulverized soot from the 
mills to his parched throat and suffocating lungs 
like the odor of bad cooking in a confined space. 

He had had scant luck in gathering news, be- 
cause he had been out on a rambling assignment, 
«nd since the saloons had gone out of business, 
there was little to be gleaned from the streets, 
unless the P'ates should donate an accident or an 
interesting featur^^ story. So at noon he returned 
io the city oflice t!red and discouraged. Although 
no one paid him the slightest attention, hardly 
expecting anything from so inexperienced a man, 
yet he did not care to confess failure. He sat 
down quietly at a desk and pretended to be writ- 
ing. But soon he stopped, staring across the busy 
room apparently in deep thought. 

He turned towards the man next to him and 
waited for him to look up from his work. But 
Dawson, a rough, kind man of middle age, wlio 
had had very little education, but whose natural 
ability was unequalled, was having dithculty, and 

38 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

it was some time before he straightened up from 
his typewriter. 

"Mr. Dawson, did you ever fake a story?" he 
asked. 

"Well, now, Mr. Roper, I don't like to tell a 
lie. I ain't never done it without some good 
object-like. Understand, this paper don't stand 
for that sort of thing as a regular thing, but some- 
times a good story is news, even if it stretches the 
truth some." 

"You see, Dawson, I have a dandy story, a 
traffic story. But it happened in another city 
and was featured by a newspaper there. If I 
used fictitious names, do you think I could get 
away with it here?" 

Dawson scratched his head and thought a 
minute. Unconsciously he lowered his voice. 

"I tell you what to do. Bill. Go down and see 
the cop on the square, you know, Pat McKinny 
tell him who you are and say you're a friend of 
mine, see? Tell him your story and ask him if 
you can use his name. It's a cinch he'll agree; 
he likes the blarney, and yuh can pass the buck 
to him." 

A happy smile spread over Bill's face. "Thanks, 
Mr. Dawson; I'll do that, and if he has any good 
stories of his own, I'll give them to you." 

Fifteen minutes later the perspiring cub report- 
er handed in a feature story which the city editor 
praised so much that Bill began to feel the small 
voice of conscience and to wish he had not sacri- 

39 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

ficed veracity. And later, after the first editions 
had been passed around the office, it was as in a 
daze that he received the compliments from the 
rest of the force, who realized he was now gradu- 
ated from the cub class — for there was his story 
with a neat line around it on the first page. 

Pat McKinny was the city's oldest landmark. 
He was the type of traffic policeman that every 
motorist likes to meet, for, in addition to his 
efficiency, his venerable white hair, good nature, 
hearty smile and ready Irish wit had made him 
the favorite of all. 

But, while he was the most popular man on the 
force with civilians, his superiors saw only his 
faults. The most obvious of these was his liking 
for strong waters. And, in spite of the dry era of 
prohibition, his many friends saw to it that 'Pat' 
was well supplied. Since he had served so long 
and faithfully, Pat naturally was accustomed to 
taking a few liberties, and it was no secret in 
official circles that he often went on duty under 
the influence of liquor. 

Pat was on duty when young Roper approached 
him and introduced himself. Giving the young 
man his attention and, directing traffic at the same 
time was easy for him. 

"Yis, sure an' yez can use my name," he smiled. 
"And say, I was lookin' for wan of yez reporter 
fellers the other day. I had a peach av a yarn 
for yez." 

And, not neglecting his work in the slightest, he 

40 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

proceeded to tell a story of his own which Bill 
took down for his friend. At the close, Bill 
thanked him, shook hands warmly and told him 
to watch for his name in the last edition of that 
evening's paper. 

Several years later Bill Roper had attained 
some success and prominence in his profession. 
He no longer had to search for news, nor did he 
have to write any but the most important stories. 
He now occupied the city editor's desk of the 
New York Blade. 

Early one cold Winter morning, when the work 
was just beginning to come in, he was interrupted. 

"Mr. Roper!" 

Bill did not glance up for a minute as he was 
editing some copy. When he did it was with an 
impetuous scowl. 

"Well? ... O, is it you again? What do you 
want now?" 

With deliberate intent the city editor treated 
the younger members of his force with meanness 
and contempt, often shouting at them at the top 
of his lungs. The man who had approached him 
was a cub who was helping out on the morgue 
route. Roper hated all cubs, and this one in par- 
ticular, because he was the most persistent in 
bothering him with foolish questions. 

"Mr. Roper, do you want me to include this 
clipping in the writeup of this man's death notice? 

41 



riir l*()rlfolin of Sdmiirl (',. MrClnre Jr. 

It WMS IouikI in his poikot and was i\\v iiu-aiis of 
icJentilyiiii; \\\v poor fellow." 

Hill siiaUlu'd at the copy. Ki^ally, this soil of 
Ihini; was Ki'HinjA l<> !><-' <>ii awful nuisance. 

But his altitude chanK<^*d as he read it. All at 
once he seemed to crumple in his chair. Then he 
straightened. When he si)oke his tone was mild. 

"No, 1 will handle this. After this use your 
own judgment. Don't bother me." 

Alone he hastily edited the copy and wrote the 
headline. The (inished product read as follows: 

"ONcii i»r()mini:nt policeman dies 

IN DISGRACE. 

Pittsburgh Otlicer Found Dead In Gutter. 

Patrick McKinny, once a well known and re- 
spected traHic ollicer in the city of Pittsburg, was 
found frozen to death by workmen at the corner 
of Third Avenue and Thirty-third Street. A 
coroner's inciuiry came to the decision that the 
man, who was evidently in reduced circumstances, 
had been drunk and had fallen asleep in the gutter, 
where death had overtaken him. 

The itlentity of the deceased was established 
by a peculiar newspaper clippinji found in his 
pocket . 

He is survived . . . etc., and etc." 

Roger placed the copy in the pile of corrected 
work. Then he read a.nain the clippins, worn and 
dirty from much handling. 

42 



'riir l*(>Hf()lio of Samuel G. McCdiirr Jr. 

LOSES EYE IN TRAFFIC. 

Wilson Howe, of Philadelphia, who was 
driving through this city yesterday was 
proceeding at a fast rate of speed through 
the public square when he hit the bad strip 
of pavement near the street intersection. 

The car shot forward out of control, 
crossed the street in spite of the closed traffic 
signal, narrowly missed a street car and 
several pedestrians and stopped. 

When traffic officer Pat McKinny, hur- 
ried over to find the trouble he heard Howe 
screaming frantically. 

"My eye, my eye," he shouted, "where 
is my eye?" 

After several minutes searcli, the missing 
eye was found and explanations made. 

Howe, it seems was badly wounded in 
the late war and was weanng a glass eye, 
which jarred out in crossing the terrific 
bumps. 

Pat McKinny swears to the truth of this 
one. 

The city editor stared out of the window for a 
long time. 

"I wonder," he mused, "was it li(|uor that 
caused poor old Pat's downfall or was it ," and 
he fumbled his own first feature story tenderly. 



43 



The Portfolio of Sanmrl G. McClure Jr. 

IMAGINATION. 

WhoooOOOoooo . . . WhoooOOOooo . . . 
WhoooOOOooo. . . 

Throughout the night, the ship's foghorn had 
ceaselessly sounded its monotonous warning. The 
passengers who had never been at sea before got 
little rest and many of them were now dozing in 
the dim morning light of the warm saloon. Sud- 
denly the man next to me woke up, groaned and 
turned to a more comfortable position. Presently, 
he found himself unable to go to sleep again and 
sat up. Then he spoke. 

"You know," he said, and as his eyes met mine 
they startled me by their intensity, "I don't mind 
that awful noise so very much " 

"No?" 

"No. What I mind is that when I fall asleep 
I have terrible dreams." 

I wanted very much to yawn or remark that I 
thought the fog was lifting, but instead I sat very 
still and he proceeded. 

"These dreams worry me. They are so real. 
I cannot understand them." 

He fumbled nervously for a cigar and began to 
chew it excitedly. 

"I have a son, Ned, who is at Yale. Before 
sailing I got a letter from him saying he was not 
getting along very well. And last night, my worst 
dream was about him. It was like some awful 
drama on the stage. I saw him before me telling 

•44 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClare ./r. 

of his troubles and then the whole scene would be 
enacted before me. 

"I saw him going out to the field for football. I 
saw him playing on a team in a scrimmage. He 
missed several tackles and was replaced by another 
man. On the next day he was dropped to Bull's 
scrubs. There he ran through signals and plays 
of strange formations. But he was not getting 
any coaching. Day after day he was out there, 
often playing in short scrimmages, often sitting on 
the sidelines because of his failure to show im- 
provement. For a month he worked hard. Then 
he became careless; finally he could be heard to 
complain. He railed agamst the system which 
handicapped the man who was not a star, and it 
seemed to me that it was unjust, that it was no 
wonder that he could not improve without more 
practise and more individual coaching. 

"Next I saw him practising on the ice at the 
arena. He had always played hockey well. Soon 
his ability was recognized and he made the var- 
sity. In his first game, he had a great oppor- 
tunity. The puck was free near the opponents' 
goal and their goaltender was skating out to clear 
it. But Ned was coming down the ice fast. He 
reached the puck first, shot it forward with a 
sweep of his stick and crashed into the goaltender, 
falling beneath him. When they picked him up 
his arm hung limply. The crowd that had 
cheered madly the moment before, was silent as 
he was carried off. 

45 



The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McCAare Jr. 

"Later in the season, I saw him trying to play 
again. He was strong enough but he could not 
get hack his old skill. He would skate alone and 
take long shots at the goal while the team would 
practise together. Then he would play against 
them a lew minutes each day. And again 1 
heard him grumble against the system. How 
could a man improve without more chance to 
play or more coaching? 

"Many years elapsed and 1 saw Ned visiting 
his son at Yale. A new system was now in prac- 
tise; one that offered encouragement and a broader 
range of exercise to all. Ned's son pointed out 
with pride five fields for football, each squad of 
which had its own coaches, style of play and 
facilities for its own squads. He said that only 
one squad of two teams used each field, and that 
each squad had its traditions, colors and name. I 
saw a game played on Saturday afternoon in the 
Bowl against two squads, and I was surprised to 
see an evenly matched game between two Yale 
teams draw as large a crowd as ever came out to 
the Yale- Vermont or Yale-Bates game in my day. 

"Ned's son explained that only three big games 
were now played with other colleges; one with 
Army, Princeton and Harvard. He said a differ- 
ent Yale team met each of these. These teams 
were picked by a committee of coaches and com- 
prised the best players of the various squads. 
There was the first All-Yale team, the second and 
the third. Only the men on the first received 

46 



7Vtf Porlfnlio of Samuel G. MriUiire Jr. 

major Y's, the others got a minor letter, while 
those who were on a squad team but not an All- 
Yale got only numerals. In this way, he said 
Walter Camp was now saved the trouble of 
bothering about an AU-American selection, for 
these teams were so good and won such overwhelm- 
ing victories that they always won that honor 
automatically. 

"But the joy I had felt at this picture changed 
to horror. For now I saw Ned, discouraged, a 
failure. I saw him spending his time in the com- 
pany of other disheartened, dissolute college 
youths. Night after night I saw him drinking 
vile concoctions called 'bootleg' and dancing, in- 
toxicated, in dirty dancehalls with cheap painted 
girls, finally, I saw him in a purple and golden 
cabaret with an alluring, but overdressed actress. 
I heard him making love to her, heard her leading 
him on with all the wiles and arts of accomplished 
women of the world. He was fascinated, mad- 
dened by her. He lost his head and proposed to 
her. She laughed her consent. They hurried 
nway and were married. 

"Lastly I saw him in disgrace; dishonored and 
dismissed from Yale. I saw his name printed 
large in scandal sheets with the history of the 
woman he had married. And at last, I saw him 
level a revolver at his own head and pull the 
trigger. 

"I awoke in an agony of fear. Tell me, do you 
think there is such a thing as a prophetic vision?" 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

I told him that 1 did not think so, that nothing 
of the kind had ever happened to me; and that I 
had travelled much. 

Just then a steward came through the saloon, 
calling, "Mr. Tracy, Mr. Tracy." 

"Here," yelled the man next to me, and turning 
to me, "What if, what if it's from Ned?" 

He tore open the wireless envelope and read 
the message. Then a sickly grin spread over his 
face. He handed it to me. 

It read. "Congratulate me. 1 just made Phi 
Beta Kappa.— Ned Tracy." 



48 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 



THE GOLD FOOTBALL. 

He had decided to wear it that night at the 
dinner party, although for several years it had 
lain neglected in his bureau drawer. His pride 
in the cute little gold trophy, with its red letter- 
ing, which proclaimed that he had played on a 
championship preparatory school team, had gone. 
Instead of reminding him of the triumph it cele- 
brated, of those glorious days when, after many 
months struggle, he had won his place on the 
team and later had contributed to its victories, 
it now seemed an empty thing because he had not 
succeeded in his college football ambitions later. 

But this was not the reason it had been dis- 
carded. There were other memories it carried 
with it that were not entirely pleasant. 

John Parker was a clean-cut, good-looking 
young man. His curly light brown hair, parted 
in the middle, crowned a long and rather narrow 
face which was lighted up by attractive blue eyes. 
When he left Preparatory School to join the Navy, 
he was quite a strikingly handsome fellow, even 
if his gobs' uniform did not do him full justice. 
He was young; he was attractive; he had attended 
one of the best Preparatory schools; he came of a 
good family, and, more than any of these to him, 
he had won a gold football. 

It was while he was in the Navy that John had 
his first love affair. At an officers' training camp 
near a small coast town, he fell madly in love with 

49 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Vivian Paul. She was a dainty little girl who did 
not reach to his shoulder but she quite bewitched 
him with her smile, her soft grey eyes and her 
quick coloring blush. They met at many enter- 
tamments, given by the best families of the neigh- 
borhood to show their interest and good will to 
the boys who were in training for their country's 
service, but they were never alone together and 
John felt that he made slight headway in winning 
her affections. 

One Sunday, when on leave, he hired an old- 
fashioned victoria and a pair of worn-out livery 
horses and with his buddy drove Vivian and her 
sister along the wooded shore road. The day 
was glorious, perfect, with brilliant sunshine and 
a soft sea breeze. In the comfortable rear seat, 
John was enjoying himself to the utmost, over- 
come by the sense of her nearness and the warmth 
of her smile. 

They talked of mutual acquamtances, ot the 
beautiful homes they passed, of an approaching 
wedding to which both were invited, and somehow 
John found it impossible to turn the conversation 
into personal channels. At last, the chance came 
when Vivian remarked she wished she had an 
engagement ring. 

"I'll give you one," said John quickly, looking 
her squarely in the eyes. His tone and look 
startled her by their intensity, yet she played up, 
half-seriously. 

"And will you announce our engagement, let 

50 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

me have a big wedding and build me a great big 
house, with lots of pretty things?" she asked, 
laughmgly. 

"Of course," he smiled back, "you know I will." 

Then the conversation veered away to other 
and safer subjects. 

But what Vivian had said in jest, had fallen in 
fertile soil, and sprang up quickly. He told her 
how he regretted every moment they were apart, 
how lonely he was for home and its comforts, and 
he made a bet with her that she could not write 
him a letter a day for a whole week. 

On her part, Vivian was impressed with his 
seriousness, flattered by his attentions and at- 
tracted by his clean manhood. A uniform and 
a harvest moon perform strange muracles, more- 
over, in a girl's heart. 

She won the bet easily. 

In reply to her gossipy notes, John wrote real 
love letters which soon won a like response. 

The summer drew to a close, the training school 
was about to end. The last night of the training 
camp came, and again John took Vivian riding, 
this time alone, in a borrowed roadster. 

They rode down the famiHar roads and lanes 
rather slowly. Hardly a word was spoken until 
they stopped at their trysting place and were 
bathed in a flood of clear, mystic moonlight. Not 
till then, did John reach forth his arms for her to 
nestle close. 

"I love you," he murmured, and marvelled at 

51 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

her racing heart. "And I love you. John, with 
all my soul," she answered. 

They kissed — a long, sweet embrace — and 
sorrowfully raced home that her family might not 
suspect. But, later, on the porch, he told her his 
ambitions and they made their plans. 

"When the war is over, Vivian," he told her, 
"I must go to college. It is part of our family 
tradition. But I shall only go for a year — one 
year is enough — I have a good education now. 
Next summer I shall come back for you. I'll get 
a ring and we'll announce our engagement then." 

"Oh, John, if I only had something to remember 
you by now — some little thing — I would be better 
able to stand not being with you," she begged. 

With difficulty, John unpinned the gold foot- 
ball, and, kissing it, gave it to her. 

The next day he left so early he had no oppor- 
tunity to say goodbye. 

The war ended that fall and John went to 
college as he had planned. He wrote Vivian 
regularly but foolishly showed some of her letters 
to his roommate, who ridiculed them. John 
was furious but, as a result, he began to judge 
them more cynically. 

What was more serious, his roommate led John 
into reckless company. For a few weeks he 
drank to excess and figured in a number of wild 
episodes. 

A letter from Vivian startled him. She ac- 
cused him of neglect and of not loving her. John 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

was overcome with remorse over his escapades and 
wrote her a long letter telling of his worthlessness. 
She replied that she trusted him and knew he was 
not "a rounder" and that she would never believe 
it of him. 

John in reply wrote her quixotically, doing a 
mad, but, as he thought, a highly chivalrous thing. 
He asked her to release him because of his way- 
wardness and unworthiness. Her response 
touched the wrong chord, accusing him of trifling 
with her and charging that he never had loved her. 
John was angered and asked for and obtained his 
gold football. 

Within a year Vivian Paul's wedding was an- 
nounced. 

John finished college, always disappointed in 
his ambitions to make a career there, and un- 
happy, sometimes almost sullen. 

Now he had been at home for two years. He 
was making a success in business. A house party 
was in progress at a near-by neighbor's, and among 
the guests whom John had met repeatedly was a 
small dark girl with fine grey eyes. She was to be 
his dinner partner that evening. 

Tenderly and carefully, John clasped the gold 
football on his watch chain. 



53 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

A SOLITARY WALK 

How often in each civilized man's life he has 
instinctively turned away from the smothering 
confines of walled rooms and sought peace of 
mind by tramping the city streets at night. There 
is a chance here for letting loose the imagination, 
for enjoying the lights and shadows of the town, 
for filling the lungs with fresh air and for absorb- 
ing rare designs in architecture enhanced by na- 
ture and softened by kinder lights. 

Of all such nocturnal wanderings, I like best 
those taken on clear winter nights. The streets 
are deserted, the moonlight is reflected from the 
snow, the lights twinkle like diamonds through 
the frosted panes, and the whole atmosphere 
tingles with exhilarating unreality. At this time, 
solitude lures with a strange appeal of excitement 
and a promise of mystery. 

It was an hour before midnight in New Haven 
when I set forth from York Street. I turned 
northwest along by the cemetery, winding up one 
street and down the next, quite at random. In 
these narrow streets, the rows of tenement-like 
buildings with their flights of steps and iron rail- 
ings were clothed for once in white. 

Walking slowly and evenly, I turned northwest 
from York Street along by the cemetery, winding 
up one street and down the next, wandering into 
Canal Street and from there down around Hill- 
house and so back to the campus. In all, the 

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The Portfolio of Sanmel G. VlcCUiire Jr. 

circuit took perhaps an hour and was filled with 
small incidents. 

But first, allow me to describe the night and the 
districts I passed through. It was clear but as yet 
no moon had appeared. Millions of different 
colored stars, some blue, some golden and a few 
pale white, alternately grew dim and bright like 
the flickering arc lamps which regularly spaced 
the streets. In such faint ethereal light, rows of 
tenement-like buildings, some with high flights 
of steps and iron railings— some opening on the 
street level, and small shining white cottages with 
shutters, contrasted strongly with larger houses 
of the late French gothic style, or frame flat- 
roofed American ones, having front porches and 
occasionally full length windows. Sometimes, I 
could see, through the yellow illumination from 
unblinded windows, small mahogany wall clocks, 
crooked oak staircases and, more rarely, grotesque 
moving shadows of the occupants. 

In the poorer districts, where the dwellings are 
smaller and more closely packed together, I was 
surprised to find I was not really alone. First, 
I noticed an old woman, wrapped in shawls and 
many petticoats, limping along on one crutch and 
carrying in her free hand an object that made me 
pause and wonder. I fancied that habit was still 
strong in her stubborn spirit and that she was 
bringing back to her home a bucket of home-brew 
mysteriously obtained from the former grog-shop, 
which was near and whose shaded and curtained 

55 



The Porlfolin of Samuel <i. McClure Jr. 

windows failed to conceal the bright lights within. 
But perhaps I did her an injustice; maybe she was 
returning from an evening's gossip with neighbor- 
ing friends. 

Continuing, I found I was the object of sus- 
picious looks from several patrolmen. Small dogs 
barked at me. Agam speculation ruled my 
thoughts. I imagined they considered me a 
possible second-story man, looking for an easy 
job. This thought affording me only temporary 
amusement, I discarded it for another. Since 
I had seen no other policeman on any other streets, 
I wondered if they were not congregating for a 
raid on some gambling den or disorderly house, 
and I regarded the shacks close by the street with 
a new intensity. Tiring of such inane curiosity, 
I wandered into more brightly lighted thorough- 
fares. 

Here, at a street intersection, I noticed two 
well dressed girls, evidently just returned from the 
theatre. They were bidding goodnight to each 
other and making plans for the next day. Inter- 
ested, I stopped on the far comer, and, after light- 
ing a cigarette, gazed intently in their direction. 
I was hoping I could offer some protection in case 
any disorderly rowdies should appear, but evi- 
dently I, myself, frightened the younger for she 
was finally escorted to her home by the other, who 
in turn hastily disappeared. 

Finally, on my way home again by the high 
cemetery wall. I saw far ahead a man and a maid 

56 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

and moved nearer the wall to see them better 
against the street lamp. They had stopped, their 
shadows had merged and I imagined they were 
lovers stealing an embrace. But only for a mo- 
ment — a sudden flare of a match, the glow of a 
cigarette and they started toward me once more. 

"How selfish and discourteous is the modem 
man," I thought, quickening my step, much like a 
horse who knows when he approaches home. 

By this time my feet were numb with cold, my 
lungs filled with ozone and my face tingling with 
frost. As I turned in to the campus, I felt dis- 
appointed that nothing big, nothing great had 
occurred. But I had enjoyed my solitary walk 
keenly. 



57 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

The MS. of the following unfinished sketch 
bore no title. 

We were seated around a blazing log fire, after 
a dance that had ended at midnight. Neither 
Mildred nor myself, nor George nor Helen were 
sleepy. So my friend George suggested a round 
of ghost stories. He laid down the rules of the 
game. Each was to add something to the tale 
when it was left off by the one to the right. 
Anything was in order; supernatural elements, ro- 
mantic stories or ghastly tragedies. No one, how- 
ever, was to plagiarize any more than necessary. 

George very kindly called on me to start. I 
thought for a moment. Presently to encourage 
me, Mildred, who was sitting on my right, slyly 
reached over and patted my hand. I held it 
firmly concealed from the others' view and began. 

"There was once a very great scientist. He 
lived ahead of his time. He had studied geology, 
chemistry, astronomy, until he knew all that man 
could teach him. Then like Darwin and Burbank, 
he went out to experiment in Nature. He had 
theories of his own that he wanted to test and 
his great ambition was to discover, if he could, 
whether man could not control the great phenom- 
ena of Nature. He believed that if the secrets of 
volcanos could be found out, they could be con- 
trolled by man; that mountains could be reared 
out of deserts; that the world could be made a 
better place to live in through the resulting con- 

58 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

trol of climates; and that even the oceans could be 
sunk deeper into the earth, forced to give up their 
fertile, continental slopes so that man would have 
more land for future generations' prosperity, peace 
and happiness. 

"He spent many years in expenmentmg with the 
breaking up of the atom and with the different 
rays of the sun and their effect on basic rocks under 
pressure. He worked ceaselessly, but he could 
not find the solution of his vast problem. Finally, 
he was in despair, threatened with a nervous 
breakdown. His friends advised him to rest. 
At last he gave in to their pleas and taking along 
only his faithful Japanese man-servant, left for 
several months vacation. He went up in the 
mountains, where there was an old chateau, that 
had been in his family for generations. Its tradi- 
tions and history he was unfamiliar with, however, 
since it had but recently passed to him on the 
death of his great-uncle. 

"This castle-like structure stood on the top of 
a steep, rough hill, overlooking a winding river 
valley and its medieval town. The townspeople 
had told him of vague rumors about its being 
haunted by strange, terrifying shades of his an- 
cestors, but, as he knew them for an ignorant lot. 
he was only slightly amused by them. 

"The first week of his vacation passed very 
pleasantly. He lived only in three large rooms on 
the second floor. The windows were barred and 
small apertures in the massive walls, but there 

59 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

were so many of them that there was plenty of 
light. His rooms connected directly with a stone 
balcony from which a flight of stone steps lead 
down to the old court. This balcony connected 
all the living rooms, or rather suites of the chateau. 
On the other side of his suite, away from the court, 
there was a straight drop downward of several 
hundred feet. 

"One night, he was awakened out of a sound 
sleep by a loud knocking at his outer door." 

"All right, George, you take it up from there." 

George had been following the tale with interest, 
although he had been gazing somewhat fondly at 
Helen now and then, yet he was able to start in 
with his contribution. 

"He, ah-er, called to the Jap and had him open 
the door. The inrushing blast of air blew out the 
candles and left all in darkness. Something 
seemed to glide past his face. Jocumo — that was 
the Jap's name — slammed the door, swearing in 
his own tongue, and relighted the candles. The 
dog, after furious barking, suddenly subsided with 
a low moan. The scientist went over to see what 
was the matter with it and found it was dead." 



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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Ill 
DRAMA. 

The two efforts at dramatic composition which 
follow, are rough drafts of experimental work but 
they warrant the statement, we believe, that 
Samuel G. McClure, Jr., showed a promising apti- 
tude for it. The drama appealed to him, not 
only on its technical side, for he was always 
struggling with the problem of how to present his 
ideas, but because of the opportunity it offered 
of creating types of character and throwing them 
into striking relief by means of dramatic conflict. 

His selection of types in these two embryonic 
plays illustrates several cardinal traits of his 
character; his fundamental democracy, his love 
of beauty, his impatience with man-created ugli- 
ness, his sympathy for the "under dog" and his 
interest in all classes of people from the humblest 
to the highest. This interest was not morbid or 
merely sentimental, but healthy, young and gen- 
erous, and touched with understanding sympathy 
for the most of mankind. 

The merits or demerits of what were probably 
his first efforts at the dramatic form, written as 
experiments and for self-instruction, call for no 
comment. He was enrolled for his senior year at 
Yale in Professor Crawford's course in Dramatic 
Composition and was looking forward keenly to 
the opportunities it presented. He had begun to 
study the drama for its own sake. 

Both these rough drafts are crude and unfin- 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

ished. It seems likely, however, that the second 
play was among his latest work. It was type- 
written by himself, very probably only a short 
time before his death. 



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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

THE BUG. 
Act I. 

Scene: An all night restaurant of the familiar 
white-tiled sort. 

As curtain ascends, Dominic, the Greek propri- 
etor, is seen behind counter. A student of the 
hard working type is seated eating. 

Student and Dominic converse on various 
topics, ending on the strangeness of the large 
number of fires recently. Student's theories: 
either a policeman, a poet or a wild firebug. Dom- 
inic says he knows any twenty men who eat at his 
joint who might be capable of incendiarism. 

Enter policeman, just off duty. Wears slicker, 
wet. Wind howls outside, banging door shut 
after him. He talks of the weather -"Bad night 
for a fire." Talks also of his heroic work in the 
last few fires. Dominic knows of this and praises 
him patronizingly. 

Enter a tough looking individual, tall, poorly 
clad — no overcoat, bloodshot eyes and weak chin, 
imshaven. 

Policeman and he have violent argument about 
Jews who suffered recent fire. Policeman shows 
contempt of man, distrust and suspicion in ques- 
tioning him. He explains Jews caused trouble 
in New York — blames Jews violently and madly. 

Student and Dominic have been listening. 
Student gets up, picks up books and leaves. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCliire Jr. 

Policeman stares after him, asks Dominic where 
he has seen him before. Dominic answers with a 
shrug — "Probably in restaurant." 

Policeman leaves, leaving Dominic alone. Sev- 
eral taxicab parties enter and are waited on by 
Dominic. Interesting but not nice conversation; 
witty, full of double-entendres and slams at pro- 
hibition. Girls show poor manners — cheapness. 
Men slightly drunk. One of them does a dance to 
amusement of other unimportant non-descript 
loafers who have come in. 

In the applause following this, is heard the 
siren of a fire engine, followed by gongs and rumble 
of trucks as they run to a fire alarm. All, terri- 
fied, rush to windows at front and watch engines. 
One of the loafers rushes out, yelling: 

"It must be near, I hear them stopping now!" 

Returns breathless in a moment with the infor- 
mation that: 

"It's that big ugly firetrap on the next comer — 
the Altman Block." 

Dominic gets excited, seizes man by coat — 

"My God, man, is that right? And the wind 
blowing this way! O my God!" 

All rush out without paying for food and Domi- 
nic, alone, fastens door, goes to unlock safe and 
take out the cash bags and put them in his coat 
pocket. At this moment, door is forced and a tall 
man, in mask, rushes in, revolver in hand. He 
holds up Dominic and quickly leaves. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Dominic rushes to door, yelling: 
"Police, police, fire, murder, police!!" 

Act II. 
Same scene. 

A group of people, talking to Dominic, includes 
policeman — tall suspicious stranger — student. 

Student — And after that, you called the police- 
man here? 

Dominic — Yes. but the fellow had too big a 
start. 

Stranger — God, Dominic! that's too bad. (All 
start at tone.) — But you missed it, you should 
have seen the fire. It started in the rear near the 
basement door. 

Policeman — See here, how do you know where it 
started? 

Stranger — Why, my rooms are off the alley, and 
from my window I could see as I looked out at the 
clouds and the rain falling in lambent puddles. 

All -What? 

Stranger — I could see a tall man, hooded to the 
ears, with a cap on, crouching among the rubbish 
there in the shadow. Suddenly he struck a match. 
A tiny blaze resulted. I watched fascinated, hor- 
ror stricken. He turned around, looking to right 
and left, and I could see a pistol's steely barrel 
flash in his hand. Then he quickly walked away, 
hidden in the darkness and the rain. 

Policeman — What did you do? 

Stranger — Nothing. What could I do? 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Policeman — Why not put the blaze out or give 
the alarm? 

Stranger — I told you I was paralyzed with fear. 
There is no telephone in my rooms and I did not 
know if the bug would come back. 

All— Who? 

Stranger — The firebug. And anyway, if I 
had not been afraid, I doubt if I would have moved 
to put it out. 

Dominic — What? You're a menace to us all! 

Stranger (slowly with hard expression and 
strange tone that terrifies all) — Perhaps I am. 
But why should I? Day after day, week on 
week, have I looked at that ugly building. Why 
was it there? It was no ornament; the vilest, 
most hideous thing on earth. And what right 
did it have to exist? Two Jews built it — two 
filthy Jews. They shirked their civic duty in 
building a cheap and ugly firetrap — sacrificed 
the beauty of nature for their vile commercialism, 
so they could prosper and grow fat. There are 
many like them in the world, you know their kind. 

Dominic Well, what would you do about it? 

Stranger — I — what can I do? Nothing, always 
nothing. I couldn't begin to burn them all, even 
if I wanted to. 

Policeman — See here, who are you anyway? 

Stranger — Nothing but a poor worthless poet. 
(Snickers and smiles.) But what I am, I am; 
I can't help it. I was born so that I love beauty 
and I have been denied its sight all my life. I 

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Tfir Porljolio of Sdniiifl G. McVAure Jr. 

have longed for open spaces where I could roam 
and dwell alone with nature. But all my life has 
been spent pent up in this ugly city where the 
freedom a tradesman has, means license to build 
ugliness. Why even the foulest swamp in nature 
is better and more comely than the awful shacks 
they force on our vision. And even the most 
violent of nature's mysteries, the volcano, serves 
a more useful purpose with its lava, smoke and 
fire. (As he pronounces the last word, his eyes 
glitter strangely and a wild look comes into his 
face.) 

The policeman edges over to him, lays hand on 
shoulder. 

Policeman — Young man, I arrest you in the 
name of the law. 

Stranger (frightened, sick)— What f-f-for? 

Policeman — Never you mind, you can explain 
that later. Come along now — no trouble. 

Stranger squirms out of his grasp, turns and 
flees toward door at rear. Policeman pulls gun 
and orders him to come back. 

Dominic all this time has been watching the 
policeman intently. When he sees gun his face 
lights up— his eyes grow large and he reaches 
under the counter for his own revolver. Then he 
hops over counter. 

Dominic— Hold up your hands there, officer! 
(Takes gun away from him.) Now, the game's 
up! Where's that money of mine? (Searches 
his coat pockets). I wouldn't have recognized 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

you if you hadn't pulled that gun. (To by- 
stander) — George, run and get me a sergeant of 
police. I've got a dangerous fellow here. 

Student (still scared) — Why, what's the matter 
with him? 

Dominic — Nothing — not a thing— only he's the 
Firebug. 

Curtain. 



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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

JULIUS 
Persons 

Julius, a negro servant, well built, with a 
pleasant grin. 

Annie, an Irish cook, weighing around two 
hundred; horrible laugh. 

Millie, a common housemaid, efficient but vul- 
gar. 

John, her beau. 

Mrs. M., the mistress of an American home, 45. 

Donald, her son, 21. 

Betty, her daughter, fashionable, 23, inclined 
towards aristocracy. 

Lottie, handsome colored girl, thin, mistress to 
Julius. 

Parson Green and wife, both colored. 

First Act. 

Scene: A modern kitchen that serves as dining 
room and parlor to the servants. Outside door 
at left, refrigerator on one side, sink on other. At 
rear, a large butler's pantry lined on one side with 
shelves containing dishes, on the other a nickel sink 
for washing them; butler's pantry has two swing- 
ing doors with catches so they can remain open; 
at either side of pantry, large electric stove and 
gas range. To right, cupboards for food, built in 
flour-bins, etc.; door with glass pane leads to 
telephone booth and back stairs. In center, a 

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The Porlfolio of Sdmiicl C. MriViire Jr. 

white table with cloth, around which are straight 
backed chairs. 

Julius, discovered in the butler's pantry listen- 
ing at second swinging door. At table, finishing 
supper, Annie and Millie. 

The tinkle of a bell in the room at the rear is 
heard. Julius goes through swinging door to 
carry out dishes. A glimpse of a pretty white 
panelled dining room is seen through the door. 
Julius wears white serving jacket and brings back 
used dessert dishes in several trips. Annie and 
Millie eat in silence; both are dressed plainly, 
Annie with apron, Millie in black dress. 

Finally, Julius has, in an incredibly short time, 
cleared off the dining room table, taken the crumbs 
away, taken in a water carafe with glasses, and 
turned off the lights. He places all the dirty 
dishes in the sink, runs hot water and is about to 
leave them to soak, when Annie speaks loudly. 

Annie — Julius, come here at once and take away 
these dishes. 

Julius — Yasum, I'se comin', (Enters, takes 
away dishes and reenters) — Missus said Ah was 
to tell you the dinnah was quite smhat tonight. 
(He sits down at his place at table, starts to eat) . 

Millie — Hump! I'll say it was. 

Annie — It had been better if you hand't 
scorched these potatoes while I was at the phone. 

Julius — Yessum. Ah didn't go fer to do it. 
(Laughs, showing white teeth). Lordy, Ah was 
so excited heahin you talk so sharp to that fellah. 

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The PorlfoUo of Samuel G. McCliire Jr. 

Annie (getting angry and raising her voice)— I 
sure told him where to get off. 

Millie— What did ya say? Did you have a row 
with 'im? 

Annie— You bet I did. Hump! Any man 
that can tell me what I can do— where I can go. 
I, that have taken prizes for my dancing. O, 
you needn't laugh, even if I do weigh a lot, I'm 
the best dancer in town, if I do say it who 
shouldn't. 

Mrs. M. has quietly entered from the right. 
She has overheard Annie. 

Mrs. M. (amused)— Annie, did you have a row 
with your beau? 

Annie— Yessum. He forbid me to go to the 
dance tonight and I'm going, 

Mrs. M.— Well, don't do anything reckless, 
Annie. There's plenty of men in the world who 
would fight for a good cook like you, to say nothing 
of your good looks, 

Annie— He made me mad with his giving orders. 
I'm not one to take orders from any man, let alone 
that little runt. 

Mrs. M.— Well, please don't stay out too late, 
Annie. (Turns to Millie)— Are you going to the 
dance too, Millie? (Millie nods)— Well, I do hope 
you won't be out till all hours of the night. It 
makes you too tired for the next day's work. 
(Addresses Julius)— Julius, here's some money for 
washing the dishes today. (Gives him a few 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

dollars). Mrs. Wade said she wanted you at her 
house again tomorrow. 

Julius (who has been the only one to arise on 
his mistress' entrance) — Yassum. Won't you all 
want me again soon? Work is mighty scarce, an' 
Ah has all Ah can do ter make ends meet. 

Mrs. M. — I am sorry, Julius. You are a good 
worker but I can't afford to employ you all the 
time. You make things too easy for Annie and 
Millie here and they are indispensable. Still, you 
may come next Sunday, as I expect some guests. 

Julius — Thank you, Missus. (Scratches head). 
Shall Ah come 'bout one? 

Mrs. M. — Yes. Now remember, girls, not too 
late. Goodnight. (Exit). 

A short silence. 

Annie — The old lady gives me a pain, always 
gossiping with us. 

Millie — Yeah. That'a good joke about her not 
being able to afford Julius. She is that stingy! 

Julius — Ah done heard them talkin' 'bout us at 
dinnah. 

Annie (inquisitively) — What'd they say? 

Julius — Sh ! Ah hear someone coming. 

Enter Miss Betty. 

Betty — Millie, could you tell me where you put 
the gloves I left in the hall last night? 

Millie— ^Vhy, Miss Betty, I thought I put 'era 
in the table drawer. 

Betty — They are not there. You must be more 
careful, Millie. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Julius — Ah knows whar they is, Miss Betty, 
Ah go git 'em. 

MiUie — Now I remember, JuHus put them away 
when he was helping me dust this morning. 

Exit Miss Betty and Julius. 

Julius (repeating) — Ah knows jes whar they is. 

Annie — Millie, do you want to lose your place 
here? 

Millie — I don't care. Sometimes I think I'd 
just as soon. Missus is so stingy; we have no 
privacy to ourselves and there are better jobs. 

Annie — Well, I don't. You don't realize what 
a soft thing you have here. We don't have to 
work very hard, 'specially when Julius is here. 

Millie — You're right there. I make him do all 
my work and I notice you do the same. 

Annie — Sure I do. But I don't let Misses M. 
get wind of it. If she knew how much he does 
here, she'd be likely to fire us and keep him alone. 
Why he can cook 'most as well as I. 

Millie — And he can do lots of heavy work, I 
don't. And she's that stingy . . . 

Annie — We've got to get him in wrong, that's 
what I say! 

Millie— I'll tell 'em he insulted me the first 
chance I get. 

Annie — That ought 'er do it. 

Julius enters butler's pantry and starts washing 
dishes. Both hear him come in and fall silent. 

Millie — I'm going up to fix my hair. You 
comin'? 

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The Portfolio of Sarmiel G. McClure Jr. 

Annie— 111 a minit. 

(Exit Millie). 

Annie — Julius, come here and get your dessert. 
Here's some more dishes too. (She rises and 
serves his dessert.) 

Julius takes away dishes and returns to his 
chair. 

Annie- -Now tell me what the family said. 

Julius (grins — reports the following conversa- 
tion in his own manner. — Marse Don asked why 
Missus didn't give me more work. She done told 
him she couldn't afford it. Miss Betty says she, 
'Mother!' Then she done complain that I'se too 
good a worker, says I spoil the other help. (Grins) . 
Says I caused trouble over at Miss' Wades', 'cause 
Ah made the help want me 'round all the time an' 
they got dissatisfied. Then Mister done spoke 
up, said he wished they wouldn't talk 'bout the 
servants all the time. Said a woman' conversa- 
tion was circumscribed on the North by her ser- 
vants, on the East by her bridge games and parties, 
on the South by her gossip of her neighbors and 
on the West by her clothes. Then Misses com- 
plain' he don't understan' her troubles and he 
comes right back at her about how he handles the 
men at the office without trouble. Miss Betty 
says to stop bickering; says kinder kiddin' like 
that she wants ter know if Ah told the truth about 
doing all the work on the farm last summer while 
Marse Don and the rest lay 'round in the shade 
drinking elderberry wine. Marse Don gits mad 

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The Portfolio of Snnuicl G. McClure Jr. 

an' denies it -says Ah ought ter be horsewhipped 
fer telling sech a whopper; says they don't know 
how ter treat servants, spoil 'em when they ought 
ter scold and vice versie. 

Annie — Did they say anything about me? 

Julius — No — 'cept 'bout the dinner. 

Julius (now fairly started story telling, anxious 
to keep on) — You know, Ah did tell the truth 
'bout las' summer. Marse Don didn't drink much 
but some of the other boys did. Why, one noon 
we was all sitting round pretty tired out 'cause 
the sun was mighty hot even through the woods 
whar we was chopping an' Dave, he'd been drink- 
ing some, he goes over to the car an' gits out his 
gun. Says he's gwine to have target practice. 
So he places the bottle on the stump and shoots 
away at it. O, Lx)rdy,! He took 'bout ten shots 
an* he didn't come within a mile of it. Every- 
body laugh fit to kill at him. Then he gits kind 
of sore and says he'll show 'em. He ups with 
the pistol an aims at a big hornet's nest right 
above us all, a great big nest it was, 'bout twenty 
feet from the ground. And sure 'nough he hits it 
plumb in the middle. O, Lordy! you should have 
seed those hornets come out. Mad — why they 
was jest crazy. We all jumps up and runs, they 
following. Ah done made fer the road whar Ah 
could strech mah laiges, but Marse Dave, he 
was jes' drunk enough to git mixed up and he run 
into the swamp. He got in way over his hips and 
couldn't move an' you oughter seed him. His 

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The Portfolio oj Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

face was the size of a pumpkin, all puffed out. 
Lordy, he sure was a funny looking sight. 
Annie Was it real wine you had? 
Julius — It sure was. We don' got it from the 
farmers out there, spite of inhibition. But 
t 'wasn't like the shine yo git down in Kaintuck. 
Annie — Where? Kentucky? 
Julius — Yessir. Why when Ah used ter live 
down thar, Ah used ter git this white mule. O, 
Boy! That's mean stuff. Ah used ter drink 
quite a bit too 'cause me an* my wife don't get 
along. An' when we'd had some we'd sing. This 
is the fav'rite. (He sings). 

An' every good warm night 
I'd leave my wife an' mine 
For through you're brain so bright 
Glimmers that white moonsliine 
O, O, the tender fights 
Ah'd have with wifey mine 

For through 

Annie — Why, Julius, I never knew you were 
married. Why don't you bring her up North. 

Julius — You see, it's like this. She done want 
a divorce so's she can have 'nother man. She don' 
like the North. She was a good wife to me, used 
to make lots of money takin' in washing. But 
she run 'way from me with a low down nigger, an' 
Ah couldn't stand that. Ah couldn't go on living 
with her after that, so Ah come up heah, so's 
she can have a divorce. She still writes to me 
regular, too even sends me money now an' then. 

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riir PorlfoUo of Samuel (,. McClnre Jr. 

Enter Donald from right. 

Donald— Annie, I want to talk to Julius. (Exit 
Annie to right). 

Julius -Yessir, Marse Don. 

Donald -Jule, you darned, good-for-nothing nig- 
ger, darn your hide anyhow. You got me into trouble 
telling everybody about the wine last summer. 
Don't you know my father won't stand for that? 

Julius— Marse Don, Ah's sorry. 

Donald— Don't you ever say anything about me 
again or I'll give you a good licking. I've a good 
notion to give you one now. Come here. (Julius 
comes over). Lean over. Turn your face down. 
There. (He cuffs his ears). So. Now the other 
side. (Julius turns). (Boxes other ear). (Julius 
groans). Now bring me two glasses. (He sits 
down on table, lights a cigarette). 

Julius enters with tray, glasses. 

Donald— Can you lock that door? (Indicates 
door to right). 

Julius— Yassir, Marse Don. 

Donald— See here. Look at this (produces 
flask). Smell it. (Julius smells). What do you 
think it is? 

Julius (grins)— It smells like juniper juice. 

Donald— Now I want you to taste it. (Pours 
him a small drink). Here. 

Julius— Now, Marse Don, you ain't gwine force 
me ter drink this stuff, are you? (getting pale with 
fright) Lordy, it might be alchemy or something. 
I don't want ter die yit. 

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The Porlfniio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Donald — That's for you to find out. I was told 
by an eminent bootlegger that it was the real stuff. 

Julius — Can't we try it on a chicken that's out- 
side in de coop? 

Donald — O, alright. My, but you are a funny, 
cowardly nigger. 

Julius — Yassir, Ah'll fetch the bird right in. 
(Exit to left). 

Don strolls around room, humming a popular 
tune. Sees banjo in corner and picks it up, takes 
it out of case, plays a few chords poorly and lays 
it down, shaking his head. 

Re-enter Julius with a live rooster. 

Donald — Ha! now for the great experiment. 
(Feeds liquor to fowl with spoon). 

Julius (holding chicken, has to let it go) — Lordy 
sakes alive, look at the crazy thing go. (Both laugh 
heartily — watch chicken. It runs around room 
wildly and soon sinks exhausted. Julius picks it up 
carefully). The poor fella's drunk, now he's asleep. 

Donald — Well, while we're waiting to see if he 
lives, play me a tune on your banjo. 

Julius (never so happy as when he can play) — 
That's jes' what Ah been wanting to do all day. 
Dis am de first chance Ah got. (He tunes banjo 
and plays old Southern love song, sings the words). 

Donald— That's great. I wish I could play. 
Well, the bird's still alive. I'll mix these drinks 
while you put him to bed. 

Exit Julius — re-enters soon. Meanwhile Don 
mixes the drinks, humming the tune just played. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClare Jr. 

Donald— There! That's that. Here's a toast 
to the Ufe of the farmer who produces enough for 
his own needs, raising even his own strong drink. 
(He raises his own glass and drinks. Julius waits 
until his master has finished — takes his glass, then 
drinks his own portion). 

Donald — Now, Jule, let me see you clog dance 
just once. 

Julius moves over where there is room and 
starts his feet rattling. He gets going faster and 
faster, while Don claps his hands. 

Donald — Come on, try a few stunts now. 

Mrs. M. (who has entered from the butler's 
pantry) — Donald! what's the meaning of all this 
racket? (Sees bottle on table) Julius! have you 
been drinking? (Julius slides over and puts bottle 
in his pocket). 

Julius — Ah's sorry. Missus. Marse Don wanted 
me to do a jig fer 'im, and Ah can't without a 
little drap of something. 

Mrs. M. — Well, Donald, I want you to see to it 
that Julius does not drink again in this house. 
I'll not tell your father this once, if you'll promise 
not to encourage him again. 

Donald — Mother, you're a peach. I'll come in, 
in a minute, I want to tell Julius of my plans for 
him. 

Mrs. M. (leaving)— All right, Donald dear. 

Donald — Jule, that was a close shave. You 
saved my life. Whew! 

Julius —Ah's afraid, Ah's in bad with Missus. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Donald — Don't you worry, Julius. Listen. 
In a month I'm going to be married. Now I 
know all about you, Julius, and I want you to get 
that divorce of yours and marry this brown- 
skin gal of yours. 

Julius — Yas, Marse Don, that's what Ah want 
ter do. Ah's done got religion and Ah want ter 
do what's right, only Ah hain't had 'nough money, 
ner no luck with that wife in Kaintuck. 

Donald — You write her immediately and tell 
her she must get her divorce mighty soon. And 
when you marry, I'll promise you steady work 
and good comfortable quarters. 

Julius — Yassir, Marse Don, that's mighty fine 
of you. Ah sure would like to work fer you, and 
my Lottie, she's a good cook and she'll do house- 
work besides, if you give us a place together. 

Donald— All right, Julius. Then that's settled. 
Good night, 

Julius goes into pantry and starts washing 
dishes. Annie and Millie enter from right with 
their hats and coats on, speak to Julius about 
locking up, and leaving a light for them, and exit 
to left. 

Curtain falls on Julius still bending over the 
sink. 

Act II. 

Scene the same, three hours later. 
Annie, very tired, enters from outside door, 
throws off hat and coat, sighs and sinks exhausted 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

in the first chair. The electric light over the 
sink glows at dim; she sits still a moment in the 
half-light then, her head falls forward in her arms 
and she weeps quietly. She hears footsteps pause 
on the outside steps and hurriedly wipes her eyes, 
powders nose, sits erect, ready for company. 
Door is opened slowly and Millie rushes in, her 
hair disheveled, as if she were fleeing from her 
lover's embrace. He follows, chases her around 
table and catches her easily. When she sees 
Annie, she stops. 

Millie (pushing her man away, embarrassed) — 
O, er, gee, Annie, this here's John. 

Annie — I'm glad to meet you, I'm sure. 

John (also embarrassed, flushing) — Glad ter 
know youse. 

Millie — Why can't you take off your cap when 
you meet a lady? I'll show you manners, you big 
lommax (Snatches cap off, puts it on hook, 
turns up lights). 

John—The weather seems to be perking up, eh? 

Millie (breaking a slight pause which threatens 
to become embarrassing) — O, wasn't that the 
grandest party. We had a good time, didn't we, 
John? 

John (showing himself slightly henpecked in 
spite of his size) — If you say it, why then we did, 
Millie. 

Millie (not pleased)— Why don't youse have a 
mind of your own? 

Annie — I wonder if Miss Betty or Mister Don 

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The Porlfulio of Sdnnirl (!. McCUire Jr. 

have left any cake for us. (Crosses room and 
looks in cake box). 

Millie Do you want some cake, smarty? 

John -Well, if you — (gets warnini:: glance from 
Millie) please? 

Millie (playfully assuming a belligerent atti- 
tude toward John. Has come quite close to him 
and shakes him, grasping his coat lapels) Oh, 
why can't you be a man? You're an awful stick, 
you are. 

Annie — Here, you kids, stop fussing. I found 
it doesn't help any. Look at me. I had a row 
with my steady and I made him terrible mad. It 
took me an hour to smooth him down tonight and 
I might have been dancing. And he didn't come 
in for a bite afterwards. Here now, take some 
cake. It's all right, John, I made it, not Millie. 

Millie (sore) — I can cook as well as you. 

Annie -Then why don't you? It isn't because 
you don't like to, is it? 

Millie — No, it's because any one can get a good 
cook but a good maid's hard to find. 

John - That's what I say. You sure can make 
good fudge, 'cause I had some last Sunday. 

Millie I'll make you some more some day. 
(The compliment makes her feel good and she 
dances around room, singing "Da, da lee, dum de 
dee, dadce de dee" to tunc of "My Old Kentucky 
Home" medley. Suddenly she stops, utters a 
loud, "My Gawd," and kicks object out from 
under table. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

Annie— What have you found there? 

John — It looks hke a basket. 

Millie — Of course it is, stupid. 

John— Well, what's so wrong about that? Why 
shouldn't a basket be under your kitchen table? 

Millie (paying no attention to this question and 
placing basket on table before Annie)— Look, 
here's potatoes, canned soup, flour, tomaters, 
beans and even celery and lettuce. Did you put 
this stuff here, Annie? 

Annie— Not I, Millie. Do you suppose—? I'll 
bet he did. 

John- Who? You don't mean me, do you? I 
haven't been here before this evening. 

I^illie— O, you fool! No, she means that low 
nigger, Julius. 

Annie- What are we to do about it? 

Millie -Let's see. (Seeking to impress John 
with her command over the situation)— If he did 
it, he must be coming back for it. Let's see if 
he took the extra door key. (Looks). 

Annie and John -Is it there? 

Millie— No, it's gone. Well, John, you run 
out and get the nearest policeman. He won't be 
anywhere near probably, but you run around this 
block, then if you don't find him, try the one 
North, and if you still don't see him, the one to 
the South of here. He ought to be on his beat 
somewhere. 

John— Shall I run? (Picks up cap). 

Millie— Well, if you're not man enough to run— 

83 



riir Pnrlfolio of Saniticl (>. VIrCUure Jr. 

John — I'll run. (Exit). 

Annie — Do you think we'd better wake Mrs.? 

Millie — Wake her! Why she always hears us 
come in. The walls of this house are like paper 
and she doesn't sleep soundly at all, I know that. 

Annie — Suppose Julius should come back before 
John gets a cop! 

Millie (composedly) — Say, what was the idea in 
speaking about my cooking before John? Do you 
want to queer me? I thought you were my friend. 

Annie — I'm going to wake Mrs. — if he does. 
Listen (runs to door and looks out) — O, Lord, 
there he is! I'll fetch Mrs. right away. 

Millie (moves around room, says to herself) — 
Just like that cowardly Annie to leave me alone 
with him. 

The outer door is pushed open quietly. Julius 
enters, stops short on seeing Millie, who is bend- 
ing over adjusting her stocking which is rolled 
half way to the knee. He grins and rolls whites of 
eyes. 

Julius — O, Lordy, 'scuse me. I didn't mean to 
intrude, but Ah don' forget suf!in'. 

Millie — If you mean your basket, it's right here. 

Julius — Yassum, that's it. Marse Don said Ah 
might take a few things. (This is obviously a lie 
as he shifts his gaze and whines a little) — But 
you needn't tell Missus. 

Millie — Why not? (coming closer to him). Why 
shouldn't I tell whoever I please? You old 
rascal (pokes him in stomach ) . 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

Julius— Now see here, Missy, don't you do that. 

Millie— Who cares? I'll poke you if I want to 
and I'll tell too. 

Julius (alarmed)— Now see here, honey, (grasps 
her shoulders) — Don't you say nuffing! Ah don' 
want ter have ter hurt you none. 

Millie (beats him on breast with both fists and 
while apparently struggling to break away, wrig- 
gles closer in his arms) — Let me go, you're hurting 
me! 

Mrs. M. enters excitedly, followed by Annie. 
Millie instantly extricates herself, slaps Julius 
in the face and yells, "O, you beast!" 

Mrs. M. — Julius, explain your conduct here. 
What does this mean? 

Julius (stuttering)— You see Missus, it's lak 
dis. Ah's coming back after some food that Ah 
need for mah gal, an', an' dis gal here, she don' 
impose herself on me. Ah wasn't doing nuffi'n 
'cept take a little somethin' ter eat. 

Millie — He insulted me. 

Mrs. M. — You admit you were stealing, then. 

Julius— Noam, Ah was only takin' a little 
suflfin'. Ah didn't think you all'd mind. Why, 
down South, Massir expected us ter tak' suffin,' 
esspecial after any big holiday. 

Mrs. M. — Julius, you need say no more. This 
is not the South. You have stolen from me, and 
you have insulted Millie. I can't have that sort 
of thing in my house. You can go and don't 
come back here again. 

85 



The Porifolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Julius (unable to grasp fact that he is not be- 
lieved or understood, starts toplead)—0, Missus, 
please, Ah didn't understand. Won' you' please 
forgive me. Ah's don' tried mighty hard ter 
please, and Ah'U never take nuffin' again. 

Mrs. M.—No. Julius. I mean what I say. You 
are discharged. 

Julius (piteously) — O, Missus, Ah don' know 
what Ah'll do. Work's so scahce, an' mah gal's 
sick, an', an', please, won't you give me suffin' 
now and then. 

Mrs. M. — No. (points to door). Go! 

Julius (realized at last his position, hopelessly) — 
All right, I'se goin'. (Then with sudden fire) — 
But befor' Ah go, I'se gwine say a few things. 
Ah've done all the work round here fer every time 
Ah've come. Ah've don' all Annie's work, and 
waited han' an' foot on everybody. An' Ah've 
never complain'. Ah can do all the work round a 
house a woman can do. Ah done did all the work 
on the farm this Summer, while . . . (suddenly 
chokes up, an' turns away, weeping). All right, 
Ah's goin', but Ah neber 'spected ter be treated 
lak dis. (He slowly reaches door, turns, looks 
appealingly at Misses, says)— If Marse Don were 
here . . . tell Marse Don. I done got in trouble, 
not on 'count of him though, and I'se leavin'. 
(He opens door and goes out). 

Mrs. M. — (lirls, it's high time you were in bed. 
We are well rid of that Julius. 

Millie — x\ren't you going to arrest him or 

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The Porlfolio of Samiirl G. McClurt' Jr. 

nothing? I sent my man out to call the perlice- 
man. 

Mrs. M. -No, this is not a case for the police. 
When he comes tell him it was a false alarm. Don't 
forget to lock up. Goodnight, (this last from 
the doorway at right. Closes door behind her). 

Annie (walks over to Millie and nods her head 
approvingly)— I'll hand it to you, kid, you sure 
are clever. 

Curtain. 

Act hi. 

Scene —A dingy attic room of a tenement 
house. No furniture except cot. No heat. Gas 
jet in wall. On the cot, a colored woman, young 
in years. She is ill and coughs frequently. It is 
Winter and cold. Dusk is setting in. 

Julius enters by the single door. He is in rags 
and looks sick. The figure on the cot groans and 
looks around at him. Julius, crossing over, sits 
on foot of cot. 

Julius -How's mah honey tonight? 

Lottie— Ah don' know, Julie. Did you get 
work today? 

Julius (shakes his head) — Ah done tried efer- 
thin' ; dere's no use. 

Lottie — Ah wish Ah were dead. 

Julius (piteously)— Don' say it, honey. Ah 
haven't got enough even to buy yo' all a box. . . . 
(a pause) — O, I've tried and I've worked my 
hands off to make money. I was always thinkin' 

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The Portfolio of Sanuiet G. McCliire Jr. 

while I worked. Ah'm poor. Ah got to work an' 
Ah never got any richer. Ah never got any more 
work. It seems though folks didn't want me to 
work hard. Dey jes wanted me to pertend to be 
hard at work an' ter loaf lak all der res'. O, 
Lordy, Ah know Ah's only a poor nigger, but Ah 
a good nigger. Ah've gone ter meeting regular, 
an' Ah've don' said ma'h prayers. Ah couldn't 
marry you, count of my wife, an' she's guine git a 
divorce anyway. 

NOTES. 

Arrival of letter tells of his wife's divorce. He 
gets some money from her for having been so 
complacent about it. 

Enter Mr. Don. He apologizes for his entrance, 
explains he heard they were in trouble and has 
come to see what he can do for them. Their 
mutual experiences are related since last they saw 
each other. Mr. Don tells of his marriage — 
Julius of his divorce. Mr. Don tells Julius of 
his new home that he has just moved into and 
says he wants two good servants whom he expects 
to treat well — to punish severely for shortcom- 
ings — to reward well for good service. Mr. Don 
makes requirement that they marry. Both agree 
with joy — like the children they are. Julius 
calls down banister to Deacon Jones who occupies 
room on second floor, to hurry up. Julius pro- 
duces a license that he got long ago and the play 
ends as the minister starts the marriage ceremony. 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

[It seems worth while to add here, a few of the 
brief written criticisms of the Drama, done by 
Samuel G. McClure, Jr., as part of his class work, 
during his Junior year at Yale. They reveal a 
more than usual grasp of the principles of dramatic 
composition and the true purpose of the Drama.] 

RIDERS TO THE SEA. 

Riders to The Sea, is, in my opinion, a master- 
piece of dramatic construction. It has just 
enough of the unfolding method of Ibsen, com- 
bined with the right amount of the mysticism of 
Maeterlink and the forward action of Rostand, to 
make it well worthy of study. 

In addition, the play is an unusual one because 
it is a bit of realism from one of the queerest spots 
on earth. It is a tragedy because in this place 
the young men die soon, leaving the old alone 
and unsupported. And these old people are 
superstitious; they are affected by the horrors of 
the place, so that they seem unnatural, terrible. 
One is inclined to think that the terrific strain of 
their lives leaves them mildly unbalanced, if not 
insane. Certainly there can be no other reason 
for Maurya's forgetfulness of a blessing for her 
last son's parting, nor her relief after all her sons 
are dead. 

In the treatment of the next-to-last-son's death 
by the two girls and their subsequent breaking of 
the news to their mother, Ibsen's manner is plain- 
ly visible. We are kept in suspense as all the 

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Thf Porlfolio of Samuel (1. MclUurc Jr. 

past tragedies are unfolded, suggesting more 
terrible ones to come. Then the action of Bart- 
ley in riding off without food or a blessing, Maur- 
ya's dream, and the bringing in of the body give 
an extra stimulus in the way of real action. And 
interwoven throughout is mysticism, the weird- 
ness of the injustice of the sea, the 'keening' of the 
mourning women, and the ghostly dream. The 
realism of Nora's last remark that she was fonder 
of Michael touches off the whole play, and makes 
you think that somehow it is all for the best, and 
that the old woman deserves her hard fate. 

THE HOUR GLASS. 

The Hour Gloss seemed to me to be William 
Butler Yeats' version of Marlow's Fouslus. You 
have instead of the Devil, Mephistopheles, an 
unknown angel, instead of the learned Doctor 
Faustus, a cynical Wise man. There is not the 
actual device of selling a soul to the devil, but 
there is certainly the same dramatic trick of hav- 
ing the man die at the end of the hour. In Faus- 
tus, though, we are inclined to think that this is 
done with gieater effect, since the striking of the 
quarter hour is more emphatic than the silent 
flow of sand through the hour glass. And the 
parallel is noticeable in that both men turn cow- 
ards at the end, seeking every means in their 
power to save their souls. 

The question at once comes to our minds, is 
this true of life? Is this the way in which all 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

known disbelievers and atheists have met their 
end? We have ample evidence that it is not. 
There have been just as many non-believers who 
have faced death bravely and with confidence 
as there have been Christians who were in terror 
and misery at the time of passing into the un- 
known. But Yeats presents us with the conven- 
tional view. 

Moreover, in the sign that is shown to the stu- 
dents at their teacher's death, we see the worst 
sort of cheap religious superstition which has the 
miraculous effect of making all believe. One 
wonders that it really could— so steeped m dis- 
belief are they that it seems fantastic to have 
them change so suddenly. Surely there would be 
some of them at any rate who would not be taken 
in by the words of the fool; who would have sense 
enough to see that he was imposing on them in a 
moment of irrationality. 

CYRANO DK BERGERAC. 

Rostand won great and deserved fame through 
this, perhaps his best known play. In comment- 
ing on this play, it is impossible to pick out and 
criticise any flaws, unless one is a much better 
critic than I. I am forced to content myself 
with only touching on those points that made the 
greatest impression, and try to explain why. 

In the first place, the whole love affair between 
Cyrano and Roxane is done in masterful fashion. 
Compare this with the too frequent sketches of 

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77/r Porl folio of Sdnnwl (i. McCliire Jr. 

love-at-first-sight that one sees — for instance — at 
places like Poli's Palace. There it is easy to see 
the falseness and absurdity of trying to make an 
amour start suddenly out of nowhere and proceed 
in five minutes to a grand declaration of passionate 
love. It always leaves a distasteful impression, 
if one thinks about it at all, for it is contrary to 
the realities of life. Shaw recognized the 
humor in this sort of a situation, and made sly 
fun at it in 'You Never Can Tell!' But a serious 
treatment deserves serious consideration, and 
Rostand impresses us by his comparison of two 
men's loves, a sudden infatuation and a long- 
cherished passion strengthened by childhood 
memories. He leaves us no doubt, I think, as to 
which is the nobler; I only wish he had made 
Cyrano's the happier. 

Next, the balcony scene, while it reminded one 
of Romeo and Juliet, is one of the best pictures of 
love-making we had had since Shakespeare. It 
avoids the heaviness of the earlier scene by quick 
transitions to humor and pathos. 

Lastly, for a climax I know of no better than that 
at the end of the fourth act, when Cyrano leaps for- 
ward to meet the charge shouting, "Famed fight- 
ers, liars, desperates, they are the Gascony Ca- 
dets!" . Why, it makes shivers run down your spine- 

I think we should congratulate Rostand for 
giving us a drama — a great tragedy — containing 
all the glamor of a romance of Dumas. Such an 
achievement is worthy of the highest praise. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

KING ARGIMENES. 

For a dramatic picture of misery and poverty, 
one has only to point to King Argimenes and The 
Unknown Warrior. Somehow to see a former 
king debased and suffering the hardships of slaves 
seems to me to be a sight that would have de- 
lighted Shakespeare. Yet, even in the midst of 
the worst conditions imaginable, there is hope, 
and we are thrilled to see Argimenes make the 
most of his opportunity and rise once more to his 
former power. 

To me, this is the proper theme for a drama. 
There is a dramatic interest aroused in each one 
of us in seeing any man improve his condition 
from slavery to mastery. It is what we like to 
see those about us doing for themselves, it is what 
we wish we could do for ourselves. It is the spirit 
of modern life. 

And in this play, we believe that Dunsany has 
served us a real treat. He has made us believe a 
little bit more in the old 'saw' that, 'right is 
might.* He has purposely made his play simple, 
he has not developed character except in the 
cleverest, most subtile way -by the use of legit- 
imate speech to bring out the inmost desires 
and thoughts of each one of his characters. Truly, 
this is an inspiring and healthy drama. 

Incidentally, the best thing about it is that the 
actual fighting is not seen on the stage. Yet all 
the effect is conveyed with far more force since it 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

is heard in the distance. Thus the play is saved 
from becoming a melodrama or a farce. 

But the ending is also good, very cleverly ar- 
ranged. The spectacle of the new king almost 
forgetting himself when it is announced that the 
dog of King Darniak is dead, and almost ordering 
it served as a meal re-emphasized the suddenness 
of the victory, and recalled again the pathetic 
hunger of the former slaves. 



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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

IV. 
LETTERS 

No form of composition mirrors the spirit and 
character of the writer better than friendly letters 
written in comradeship and affection. For this 
reason selections from the personal letters of 
Samuel G. McClure, Jr., are included in this 
memorial volume. 

Some of them reveal the youth in his Prepara- 
tory School life at Taft, others his experiences in 
the Naval training unit and the later ones give 
some pictures of his college life. Many of them 
are notable for the humor that was always bub- 
bling up in him, while others, especially that to 
his grandmother which closes the collection, show 
the considerate tenderness and affection which, 
to those who knew him best, were among his 
noblest qualities. 

As far as possible, personal references have been 
excluded, except as they seemed necessary to give 
lucidity to the extracts. 



95 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

THE TAFT SCHOOL 
WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 

(between April 7 and May 1, 1917). 

Dear Mother: 

I got a letter from Dad yesterday but have not 
heard from you since last week. Dad forgot to 
give me his New York address so I am sending 
this home. I guess I can't take a Sunday off this 
term as I lack points — but I wrote Bob asking 
him to come to Waterbury next Sunday for a noon 
dinner (at the Elton). I can get off from 11 A. M. 
to 4 o'clock without points if I have relatives in 
Waterbury. Dad said something about coming 
up to Waterbury, but as he will not be in the East 
next Sunday, I guess we will not have a reunion. 
The mail monitor just brought a letter from Bob 
(written in class very hastily) saying that he 
hoped to come if he doesn't leave there at the end 
of the week for R. O. T. C. Training Camp. 

Dad has sent me considerable money and I 
have spent most of it furnishing the room. Cur- 
tis, my old roommate, left for tutoring school in 
New Haven last Thursday and I bought a great 
deal of his stuff. He left a desk also which I will 
try to buy from him when he comes up. He 
promised to come up in a few Sundays. 

I have been playing baseball on the class teams 
at third base. Today we lost 15 to 6. In the 
last inning they brought in three runs (knocked 
a home run with the bases full and no out). It 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

was a good game, nevertheless. I made one 
assist, three errors (I think) one hit, got on base 
twice on errors, and once on a pass. I wish I had 
gone out for the game in earnest, now; as they 
haven't got a very strong team this year — only 
one T man back. 

O, yes, I dropped history and am overjoyed. 
I mean to specialize on the things I need to get a 
recommendation in, and substitute chemistry 
and physics for history. As you know, I never 
have liked the history teacher, the large class of 
younger fellows, nor the stuff itself. When you 
write Dad, tell him to wire me if he is coming up 
here. 

Yours, with love to all, 

Sam McClure. Jr. 

the taft school 
watertown, connecticut 

May 1, 1917. 
(rainy all day and colder!) 
Dear Mother: 

Sunday evening Bob and I met — he couldn't 
come at noon on account of the dentist's — in 
Waterbury, and had a very nice visit. It is un- 
necessary to say anything of Dad's visit, but 
nevertheless I must say that I was very much 
pleased to see him; and I wish that you could have 
come to New York with him. If that had hap- 
pened I might have been able to take a Sunday off. 
Everything has resimied its natural course now 

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The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McC'lurt' Jr. 

and there have been no bad effects — except that I 
got 40 in that Enghsh test I took when Dad was 
here. They are terribly discouraging but I'm 
learning more by getting low marks than other- 
wise. 

I was informed last night that I was not elected 
track manager for next year. I didn't know that 
the election would come so soon and had let Wood- 
ruff get ahead of me in the matter of work. So he 
deserved the job. I am rather glad that it is over 
as it was not the cinch I had been led to expect. 
Now I can go in for tennis, and to that end I 
bought a good racket — some time ago, however. 

I just wrote Elinor in reply to a very funny 
letter of hers — telling her that she had a wonderful 
gift for writing lengthy articles about nothing and 
that the only thing I deduced from her epistle was 
that she was playing some tennis and that the 
weather was fine. I am afraid her course in Eng- 
lish under a Harvard graduate is beginning to show 
results — even in her letters. Therefore it might 
be a very good thing for her to change colleges 
next year. I wrote Al recently, perhaps he men- 
tioned the fact (boast ingly) that he was actually 
keeping up a correspondence. 

***** Have you kept track of the 
errors I've made (in the Papyrus*)? It's funny. 
Please don't forget to write. 

With love to all, <^ 

* The school paper of which he was one of the 
local editors. 

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77/f' l*(trtf()li<> of Samuel G. McCAurt Jr. 

THE TAFT SCHOOL 
WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 

(About Oct. 1, 1917). 
Dear Mother: 

School has completely started. After having a 
fine time in New Haven and Milford, I am back at 
work again. I wrote Al several days ago that, 
although I expected to stay at the Taft Hotel in 
New Haven, I was invited out to Milford by 
Royal Bassett. It is 10 miles from New Haven 
and we were driven back and forth by Royal's 
chauffeur. 

Sunday night we called on some girls, one of 
whom goes to Bennett's and knows M. W. Mon- 
day night we took some girls to movies and Tues- 
day night we took them to a show at Shubert's 
Theatre in New Haven. I won't say at the 
present writing what I did in the exams; however, 
1 guess I did as well as I ever have, if not better. 
I'll let you know about next Monday, when I 
expect to hear from them. If they should be sent 
to you please send them at once by special de- 
livery. 

Football started today for everybody. A fellow 
named Val Ely and I had to coach the second 
squad for 20 minutes, so I guess I've got a "drag" 
with the coach. I have a slight "pull" with 
Royal, the football captain, also. * * * * I want 
to know Elinor's address and something about her. 
In Dad's telegram he said she had been sick. First 
thing 1 knew of it. 

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Tfw Portfolio of Samuel G. McCAure Jr. 

What is Bob doing or planning this year? 
Please write soon. 
As ever. 

Your loving son, 
Sam. 
p.s. — Private. 

Please forgive me for speaking so crossly that 
last Sunday. I am sorry. 1 was so tired I was 
short on patience. Lots of love. 

S. M. 



THE T.^FT ANNUAL 

Watertown, Conn., Fall. 1917. 
Dear Dad: 

Forgive me if I seemed to neglect you in writ- 
ing, but I wanted to wait until I could tell you 
how our first letter game came out. Last Satur- 
day I played during the whole game at right, 
thereby winning my T. We won 6-0; although 
we were down under the shadow of their goal 
time after time — about 5 — they held wonderfully 
and we were unable to get a touch-down, scoring 
by two drop kicks. 

It was a rather windy day. They won the toss 
and we kicked off to them against the wind. We 
held them and they kicked — then we kicked soon 
again but it was a short one on account of the 
wind. Then they opened up with all they had 
and before we knew it the ball was on our 4-yard 
line — on 4th down however. We held and kicked 
to the middle of the field. From then on, it was 

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The Portfolio of Samurl G. tVIcClure Jr. 

easier for us, since we knew their attack and they 
didn't come so close to our goal Hne, although they 
were in our territory all the time. In the second 
quarter they tried 2 drop kicks— against the wind, 
however, and they were unsuccessful. It was 
in this quarter that we had our first chance to 
score, when we were on their 10-yard line. But 
we were penalized 15 yards for offside or holding 
and so tried a drop kick which went right between 
the posts. In the third quarter we repeated the 
performance with the same result, and in the last 
we were constantly menaced until Angier inter- 
cepted a forward pass and we got the ball in the 
middle of the field. The game ended when we 
were on their 7-yard line -first down. Alto- 
gether, it was a very evenly matched game, but I 
think we would have beaten them more decisively, 
had we won the toss, for you can't imagine what a 
handicap that wind was. 

Well, Dad, if we win next Saturday we get gold 
footballs and if we are not scored on then, we will 
be the first team Taft ever put out that wasn't 
scored on. We have already equaled the record, 
not having been scored on so far. 

This morning Otis, Benjamin (left-end) and 
Hoyt, (quarterback) and myself were invited to 
breakfast with Mr. Macintosh, the history teach- 
er. We had a fine meal, the features of which were 
real cream and butter, toast, marmalade, boiled 
eggs and bacon, also oranges and shredded wheat. 
Outside of that there wasn't anything else except 

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77/f Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

coffee and water. We didn't have any celebra- 
tion last night, since they decided to wait until 
after next Saturday's game. 
With lots of love, 

Sam, Jr. 

William E. Otis, Whitford C. Gillies, 

Chairman. He's here Manager. 

THE TAFT ANNUAL 

Watertown, Conn., November, 1917. 
Dear Mother: 

Here I am out at the house enjoying not being 
in training very much. 

To begin at the beginning, we have had a very 
successful football season as you doubtless know, 
scoring 165 points to our opponents 0. We won 
the Pom fret game 6-0 and the Westminster 47-0. 
I played all the time and no one was hurt — more 
than a few bruises. Last Saturday there was a 
big bonfire and a celebration in which the Fb team 
rode around town in a wagon with the school 
following in a long line — snake dance with red fire 
torches. Everyone yelled themselves hoarse. As 
I telegraphed you we got gold footballs and most of 
us are already wearing our T on borrowed sweat- 
ers. 

Last night the King, Mr. Taft, spoke to the 
two upper classes saying how much he approved 
of military drill. We have arranged to buy regu- 
lar uniforms at $23 not including shoes, puttees- 

102 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

nor o.d. shirt nor hat. This is a heavy lined regu- 
lar officer's uniform with alterations and we can 
use them down at New Haven next year. 

4c H( 4: ^ * 

I am getting along pretty well in my studies, I 
think I got a privilege last week, and next week is 
exam week. 

Basketball started in earnest today although 
strict training is not expected to be kept. I am 
smoking a pipe, now and then, with the captain 
and expect to do so until Xmas since we figure we 
will break it then anyway and it won't hurt us as 
much if we are moderate all the time as it will if 
we break it violently then. 

I am planning a little more outside work and 
may go out for the winter competition for the 
Papyrus, the monthly paper. What does Dad 
think? 

I must close, 

With love to all, hoping to see you soon, 

Sam. 



THE TAFT SCHOOL 
WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 

(date doubtful, possibly middle 

January, 1918). 
Dear Mother: 

Your good letter came at the right moment — as 
usual. Last night I made my speech and, al- 
though I got a poor start, I got away with it all 
right. Needless to say, I didn't win. In fact, 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCliire Jr. 

the judges voted unanimously for Pharr, who, by 
the way, made the best speech heard here for 
some time. I am tremendously glad that the 
whole thing is over, because it took so much time. 
There have been rehearsals 1 hour every night this 
week. To make things harder, we have had drill 
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and on those 
evenings basketball at 8.30. To top the climax, 
this has been exam. week. But I have passed my 
English Exam. — 64 — and my Geometry— 80. 

However, as I meant to say in the beginning, your 
letter came just after I had flunked a "trig" exam. 
Only one in the class passed and he got only 60. 
After trig, I flunked a geometry recitation, so you 
can see that your letter cheered me up quite a lot. 
Today at detentions, S. M. Weld — math, teach- 
er — told the class if they thought the exam, in trig 
was hard, they could take another one tomorrow 
morning which would be much harder. I was the 
only one who volunteered for the hard exam. At 
any rate, I won't have anything to lose, for I got 
between and 22. Mr. Weld said I could take 
the exam, with my book open in front of me — it 
wouldn't make any difference. I told him I didn't 
expect to get anything on it but I wanted to see 
what a hard exam, looked like. 

Tomorrow there is a basketball game. I am 
playing guard on the first team in practice, but 
this coach keeps you uncertain as to whether you 
have made the team. Also he has a habit of sub- 
stituting a whole new team after the first half. 

104 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Did I tell you that I skated last Sunday on the 
rink here? I had to take some exercise and it was 
too icy for walking. If you don't believe I've 
been working, listen— this week I have retired 
not earlier than 12 and on two occasions at 1. 

Yours, with love to all. 

Sam. 



THE TAFT SCHOOL 
WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 

December, 1917. 
Dear Dad: 

You have asked me to write a special letter and 
so I shall try to write what you asked. But it is 
going to be rather hard, since I hardly know what 
to say. 

You see, in these times, it is not the same as it 
was when you were a boy, one has to figure more 
or less on the war. If it were not for Mother, I 
believe I should join something this summer, for I 
think you would be very proud of me if I should 
do so. But I have promised not to do anything 
that she does not approve of until I am 21. 

As you doubtless know, I have no definite plans 
for a career. Perhaps it is a weakness in my 
character, but I have never been able to lay out a 
plan or course very far ahead. But having re- 
solved on a thing, I have tried to stick to it, to 
the best of my ability. I have not succeeded in 
sticking to my studies as well as I should, but I 
think I did succeed, after much effort, in football. 

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The l^orlfolio of Sdniiirl (i. 'MrtUurc Jr. 

1 have not yet decided whether to go out for foot- 
ball in college or not, but when the time comes, I 
shall probably do so. In the same manner, I 
shall do other things, I suppose. I have found 
out that the only way to know what you like is to 
find out by comparison and experience. So now 
it is very hard for me to state definitely what I 
want to do after I finish my education. 

You said you did not like Shelf, because it laid 
emphasis on practical things. However, don't 
you think it better for me to have a more practical 
education so that I can discover what I like before 
leaving college? Of course, I want to be a man of 
some standing — every one does. I want to be 
powerful to some extent. I should like to have 
enough money to be able to get along without 
worrying, and to put through enterprises — mostly 
things which others could not do and which would 
be of some benefit to the community. I should 
like to be known as one who gives a square deal, 
and it would be a very nice thing to be able to 
help one's friends when in trouble. I have never 
seriously considered going into the ministry — I 
doubt, if you would want me to. Law would be a 
rather interesting profession, I imagine, but I 
think I should like to be a business man. Perhaps 
my views have been influenced somewhat by yours, 
but if so, it has been a good influence. 

I shall close this somewhat rambling discourse 
with just a line or two about a subject you men- 
tioned, I am uncertain if I ever told you about it 

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Tltr Porlfolio of Sa/nnrI G. McClnrr Jr. 

or not, but one reason I left Blair was because, 
although there were some fine fellows there, the 
moral standard of the fellows wasn't as high as it 
might have been. Here, especially in the lower 
classes, perhaps because Mr. Taft does not have 
many fellows over 18 in the school, the moral 
standard rather goes to the opposite extreme— if 
such a thing could be said. Last year, I would 
have said that some of the fellows had too high 
standards— that they could not get along when 
they got to college. But now, I can realize how 
this school has got its reputation at Yale— for 
turning out fellows who always hit the happy 
medium. 

Last Saturday, Bob Garfield was sick so I cap- 
tained the basket ball team to victory 15-8 against 
Willowby High from Waterbury. It was a slow 
game and we didn't do very well, since they were 

rotten. 

Did I tell you I got away with my speech o.k. 

I did. 
Yours with love to all, 

Sam. 

[Note: The following letter was written the 
night before he and four other members of his 
class left Taft school without permission to enter 
the service of their country. His four class- 
mates enlisted as second class seamen in the 
Navy; Sam went to New Haven to enter avia- 
tion, but was dissuaded by his family before he 

107 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

had been sworn in. Three of the four other boys 
were released from the Navy on representations 
by their parents, as all were under eighteen years 
of age.] 

(Very last night at the school.) 

THE TAFT SCHOOL 
WATERTOWN, CONNECTICUT 

Tuesday, Jan. 22, 1918. 
Dear Family: 

I shall write explaining my hasty act later when 
I have learned how it has affected you. 

I enclose my bills which I expected to pay. So 
far as I know there is only the school bills and 
perhaps a bill from a framer of pictures in Water- 
bury. 

I shall have to overdraw my account and expect 
that you should deposit some until I get settled. 
I shall write or wire after I've enlisted whether 
I've been accepted or not and where to send 
letters. 

Believe me, I had no idea of doing this when I 
left Xmas or even when I wrote Dad Sunday. I 
can't say how sorry I am to make you all so much 
anxiety and worry. Mother, please just trust in 
God, and leave it all to Him. I am sorry I have 
not your permission, but am hoping it will come 
to-morrow. 

I am packing my trunk now and will send it 
home by express. 

I got a postcard from Bob today with a picture 
of West Gate Winchester on the back of it. 

108 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

I don't imagine I'll go over right away, in fact 
I may have six months or so before they send me. 
With all the love in the world to all, 

Yours, 

Sam. 

[Note: All the letters written in 1918, deal with 
his experiences in the Yale Naval Training Unit, 
first at the summer camp and later at New Haven. 
Incidentally they give a rather graphic picture of 
so-called naval training. 

Madison, Conn., June, 1918. 

Dear Mother: 

I hope Dad got the two telegrams I sent— es- 
pecially the one about money. . . . 

The cmise isn't anything like I thought it would 
be. We are barracked here in an old summer re- 
sort, about 150 of us. Already guns have been 
issued to us. Capt. Abbott gave us a talk last 
night, and said he intended to have the discipline 
as strict as Annapolis. He said the War Depart- 
ment had promised two one-pounders and a three- 
inch gun, some anti-aircraft guns with kites and 
balloons to practice at. There is a rifle range 
within a mile and a half and we are to practice 
with both rifles and machine guns. Moreover 
shrapnel has been promised for our big guns. 

There are four ships which we will be on over 
Saturdays and Sundays. Also, they have some 
cutters, which we can take out every day. 

I went in swimming yesterday for the first time 

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riic Portfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

in salt water. I must say 1 can't hand it much; 
the salty taste it leaves in your mouth is very dis- 
tasteful. 

The town is not very large. However, there 
are numerous cottages along the beach. We have 
not had much time to inspect the surrounding 
country, though, in fact we are not allowed to 
leave the boundaries without permission — which is 
hard to get. 

I ran into two fellows from school — Bassett, our 
football captain, and Warren Leslie. Bassett 
drove four of us down here from New Haven, the 
chauffeur taking the car back. Willard Foster is 
here, and is one of my officers, together with 
Billingslea. 

We have to study up the drills and things for a 
parade and inspection July 4th. This a.m. we 
spent in grooming the grounds, etc. (nuff said ). 

I like the place, the men, and the work first rate. 

Well, more next time, with love to all, 

Sam. 

Yale Naval Training Station, 
Madison, Conn., August, 1918. 
Dear Mother; 

I got your very good letter some time ago, and 
I have been so busy that I have not had time to 
write anything. 

Royal Bassett left on board the Runaway for a 
short cruise of about ten days, and while he is 
away I have his place, as I was his assistant. It is 

110 



'I'hr rorlfttlio of Saniiid (i. MrCliirr Jr 

a line jol), and I'm i[<>\i\y. <<» l>'>v<' l<> K<> «<>i"^: l'> 
hold it down. Al present I am writing this while 
on Ihc (niar((>rdeck as O.D. oHucr ol the deck, 
and it's (|ui(e a job. 

it surely is fine not to he a coininon ^ob any 
more, for I don't have to ^'.o on j^uard or kitchen 
duty (deaniiiK up alter meals). 

I am not exactly sure when I'll Ix home. You 
see they are Koinji; to have a cruise u\ three we(>ks 
in September, and although 1 haven't signed up 
for it, they may order me to go il ili<v enlist U8 
all, as they are trying to do. If I don't r.<> <>n Hie 
cruise. I shall be home sometime dnrnir. the first 
week of September. We yyl onl ii<M> Saturday 
nij^it late. a!id I think I'll stay over until tix- next 
day. Then I'll k<> down and visit Warren Leslie 
at Center Moricher. LoiiK Island, lor a day or 80, 
and will probably Ket home Tuesday or Wednes- 
day. Does that meet with your ap|)rovaI? 

This isn't much of a letter, as I have been m- 
terrupted several tinu's, and had to a( t as messen 
^,'er boy, etc., for Capt. Abbott, liut I'm just 
writing to let you know I'm Kettin^ alon^, and 
am well and hai)py. 

Yours, with much love. 

Sam. 



Madison, Conn.. AuKUst, 1918. 
rX'ar Family: 

I just ^^ot father's letter, and I arn wnlinii to 

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The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClare Jr. 

amend some fonner statements which were in- 
correct. 

The Commander from the Bureau of Naviga- 
tion (which runs the Navy) was here Monday and 
Tuesday, and he could not enhst us. However, 
we are enrolled in the Students' Training Corps — 

Y. N. T. U. branch. 

***** 

I don't think I'll get in wrong by not going on 
the cruise — especially in view of the fact that they 
can't yet enlist us; and if I have a good record 
here, I'll be O. K. 

Well, I have lots to tell you and show you when 
I get home. Among other things I expect to 
take charge of the laundry, cleaning, painting, 
shoe-shining, and night-watchman jobs about the 
house, so please give the servants orders to that 
effect. 

Hoping to see you soon. 

Sa.m. 

New Haven, September, 1918. 
Dear Family: 

"O, how I hate to get up in the morning, for I 
would rather lie in bed; but the hardest blow of 
all, is to hear the bugle call. You've got to get up, 
you've got to get up this morning — some day I'm 
going to murder the bugler, etc. — ". The above 
is a song popular here, and suits me to a T. 

About the only news I've got is that we're in 
quarantine. I 'm a first petty officer under Billings- 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

lea— right guide of a company (100 men) which 
corresponds to top sergeant in the army, I beUeve, 

Recitations have not yet started for us, and 
today is Wednesday. However, we have one 
today at eleven— Gee, I've a hard schedule!! In 
the first place, they won't let line-oflficers-to-be 
take chemistry or anything unnecessary to what 
they will need. And we who were at Madison, 
have merely to review all that we studied. 

What would you say if I could get into a Marine 
Officers' School about January? I hardly think 
there's any chance of getting a commission here 
until after two years anyway, and at the rate the 
war is going it will all be over by next summer. If 
I went to the school, I could probably get a com- 
mission by Spring, which would be pretty nice. 

I went to New York last Saturday with Whit 
Gillies and Bob Garfield, and stayed at the Ritz 
as the guest of Mr. Gillies and Mr. McKinnie. I 
had a fine time visiting with the fellows whom I 
hadn't seen since last February. They had just 
been transferred from Pelham to Boston Tech., 
and came back here yesterday on a ten days' leave. 
Naturally, I've been spending a good deal of 
money lately, and my pay doesn't begin until after 
a month from the time we got here. 

The food is about the same as at Madison, 
which means it's very third-class stuff. There 
are a lot of my friends here, more than 90% of 
our class at Taft School, and all those I made at 
Madison. I'm not rooming with Bill Otis, as we 

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The Portfolio of Samuel (i. McCliire Jr. 

did the first few days; because of my petty 
officer's job I have to room with Chapman, whom 
I visited on Long Island. We have a dandy room 
at 495 Haughton Hall, where Bob roomed his 
Junior year. That's about all, except I'd like to 
hear from you all. What's Elinor's address? 
Yours as ever, 

Sam. McClure. Jr. 

New Haven, October, 1918. 
Dear Dad: 

I have nothing to say except to repeat what 
Admiral Chester told us tonight. 

He said he did not know how long we would be 
here, that no one did, but that we could guess 
(correctly) that we would be here until the end of 
the year or longer. He mentioned the probable 
taking over of the Merchant Marine by the Navy. 
He also said in his argument that a large navy was 
very important to a country which wanted domin- 
ion over the land, and that our work — meaning 
the navy — wasn't through yet, in fact was just 
beginning. 

:|c H( 4c 4: >K 

Dad, don't let anyone tell you we are either 
getting an education or any training which is 
helping us physically. Lately they've given us 
monkey drill, i.e., physical drill, before breakfast, 
something which the army cut out, as it was prov- 
en to be bad for the men at that time. 

Now, if you can possibly do so, I wish you'd get 

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The Portfolio of Saniiwl (J. McClure Jr. 

me out of here into the Marines, so that I could 
get the training which would build me up physi- 
cally. 

Please excuse the scrawl I've developed — I so 
seldom write at all that I'm losing my fine hand- 
writing. 

Yours, with much love to all, 

Sam. 

October 28, 1918. 
My dear Dad : 

Just got yours of the 24th and also Mother's 
box. I thank you again and again it certainly 
cheers me a lot. However, I'm afraid you don't 
understand why I am so dissatisfied here. It is 
not the discipline nor the military training that I 
dislike so much although they are trying, es- 
pecially on account of the quarantine. It is the 
utter abandonment of hope and ambition that is 
so disgusting. Even if the war is over by next 
summer — as you say — we will have wasted the 
time here on a course that is useless - almost. 

It is hard to describe the confusion and chaos 
of the last miserable month. No one knows what 
we are here for because the course is so general 
and non-practical that it won't do us any good if 
we go on a ship as seamen and we can't get out of 
here for three months for that even. All chances 
of ensignship are nil except for those 21 or over. 
Anyway this is not an ensign's school— although 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Lieut. Abbott says he has recommended 70 men 
in the last year for commissions and they got 
them, they had to work Uke the deuce at an En- 
sign's School at Pelham first. 

Added to that is the fact that we have to come 
back to college here as freshmen after the war is 
over — if we want to then!!! We will perhaps 
have some advanced credits here, but if we should 
stay here three years — ordinary time to graduate 
in ShefT. — we won't get a diploma or anything like 
it. Can you see why I dropped French? So it 
seems to me you can easily see we think this is a 
"'Slacker's paradise" and we are "Safe at the 
College"— (S. A. T. C). All we are doing for our 
pay (which we haven't gotten yet) is drill three 
hours in the P. M., go to two classes a day, and 
loaf in our rooms the rest of the time. 

Mr. Otis, Billy's father, was here yesterday 
and since he is on the War Industries board, four 
of us enlightened him as to the conditions here. 
He promised us he would take it up with Roose- 
velt, Assistant Secretary of Navy, and so things 
will probably be better. I hope he can have a 
man put in charge here. He is to let us know 
Wednesday how we stand. 

So Dad, please don't get the idea from anything 
I said formerly that I am kicking at everything 
for no apparent reason. If they would only lower 
the age limit — as they said had been done when 
we first got here, even then it wouldn't be bad if 
they had an efficient organization, if somebody 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

were the head; but, no, first college authorities, 
then medical officers, then Admiral — over 80 — 
then Abbott — and so on down the line. 

Just one word more. Bob was right when he 
advised against the U. S. N. R. F., and I was 
right when I left school last February with inten- 
tions of going into aviation. If we could only 
look ahead — but there's no use in crying over spilt 
milk. What I'm hoping for is a transfer or order 
for duty elsewhere and I've applied but there's 
not much hope for 3 months. 

Yours, as ever, 

Sam. 

New Haven, November 6, 1918. 
Dear Dad: 

You have doubtless done the same with my 
allowance that I did — namely, invested it in 
bonds. I am sorry to say I have received no pay 
as yet, with little chance of doing so. Likewise 
I have bought few books, using those of my kind 
friends. Also, moreover, and for well-explained 
reasons, I have had to eat outside whenever op- 
portunity offered, which has been often lately. 

The last two nights I've spent on Shore Patrol, 
which is a graft, the same as Military Police. 
Then Saturdays and Sundays they give us liberty 
from one till taps, so if one wishes, he can eat 
twice (or should I say dine?). The other meal we 
just go to mess! (Note the well-defined differ- 
ence). Mess now consists of sitting at an uncov- 

117 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

ered table, drinking water and coffee out of gray- 
ish-black cups (which are, or can be, washed in 
five seconds), eating several slices of bread, shak- 
ing your head sadly while looking at the stew, or 
tapioca dessert, or milkless oatmeal, (or whatever 
they set on the table — in large pails), and walking 
out with a dreamy look of pleasant memories 
(long past) ! 

I hope this description doesn't come at a time 
when you are hungry or about to eat (dine)!! 

On the other hand dining consists of $2, and the 
walk to the Taft or Morey's. 

O, yes, another item of expense— I'm joining 
Morey's. Again, as the month is up, laundry, 
cleaning, and pressing bills trickle in with startling 
frequency. 

I hope you will pardon my speaking at such 
length on such a sordid subject, but please deposit 
something to my account in the Mahoning Na- 
tional, 

Taft has quite a football team this year. They 
have won one game, 7-6, with Pawling. Next 
Saturday I want to go up to Pomfret for the game 
if I can, but maybe I won't have time. 

Since I have to go to mess pretty soon, I'll have 
to end this sad plea. Some day I hope to write a 
regular letter telling you something pleasant. 

Well, I must close. 
Yours, with love to all. 

Sam. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

New Haven, December 9, 1918. 
Dear Family : 

Things are going pretty well here now. Today 
they took off all the guards and put in an honor 
system, which ought to have been done long ago. 
It looks as if every chance will be given us to get 
credit in our work, and although it's hard to study 
stuff you know you'll never use, everybody wants 
to pass the final exams, which begin next Friday 
and are spread out over the next ten days. 

I'll be home Sunday, the twenty-second of 
December, and have just written Elinor with the 
idea of her going west with me. I hope that will 
work out O. K. 

I'm looking forward to a good Christmas, so 
have the house well stocked with food, the garage 
with gasoline, and the cellar with wood. Also, 
please have some of my cit's clothes — especially 
coats — pressed and cleaned. 

That's all I can think of for the present. 

Love to all, 

Sam, Jr. 

[Note: Sam's college life began in January, 
1919, and all the letters that follow deal largely 
with its incidents and experiences.] 

New Haven, January, 1919. 
My dear Dad: 

I have heard very little from you since I got 
here. Nothing except short notes and a letter 

119 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

from Elinor telling me about the trouble you had 
with your old enemy. Well, I had a little trouble 
about the same time. Freshman rush was last 
Tuesday evening. First we marched around 
town to the gym. where the wrestling matches 
came off. Bassett won his match in the Heavy- 
weight Division, but Otis lost his on decision. 
The Middleweight freshman (I don't know him) 
lost on decision, so the match went to the upper- 
classmen. Later, they made the freshmen go to 
their rooms. 

Then they came around yelling "lights out," 
and, as we'd been informed to put up a scrap, 
Bob Garfield and I, single-handed, tried to clean 
up about fifteen of them. After several minutes, 
we were overpowered and put under the shower. 
The same thing happened once again, and then 
we went to bed. As a result, I was stiff for the 
rest of the week. 

We have been much up in the air over the fra- 
ternity question, which will probably be settled 
soon. I can't tell you how the situation is until 
later, but, suffice to say, things look pretty good 
for all of us, if we don't split. 

My work is coming on well except for physics, 
which is pretty hard for me. 

Yours with lots of love, 

• Sam. 



120 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

New Haven, February, 1919. 
Dearest Mother: 

I have owed you a real good letter for some time, 
and although this is about fifteen days late, please 
consider it as a birthday letter. Somehow I am 
always away on your birthday, and as no one is 
around to remind me of the fact, it's only natural 
for me to forget it. But I wish I could be with 
you at Pinehurst, and I hope we shall all have a 
family reunion soon — when Bob comes home. 

Aren't you coming home by way of New York? 
'Cause if you do, I could get down from Saturday 
noon until Sunday night, and Elinor could also, 
I think. 

The other day you sent me a check — I don't 
know what for, but it came in very handy, and I 
wish to thank you and to return the gift as a be- 
lated birthday present. 

It's too bad you didn't get my long letter on 
the fraternity, but Otis and Gillies went Anthony, 
while Bassett and Hooe did not make it and 
couldn't make anything else they wanted at the 
last minute. You see each fraternity could only 
take in eighteen men. Tell Dad I was first to be 
pledged and taken in Phi Gam — he'll know what I 
mean. 

With lots of love, 

S. G. M., Jr. 



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The PoHfolio of Samuel G. Mcijlnre Jr. 

New Haven, October 31, 1919. 
Dear Family: 

I am very sorry I have not written for so long 
myself, but as I know that Bob has written from 
time to time all the news there was, I felt I could 
better put the time in my work. And I have been 
working, too, and slowly but surely getting the 
confidence of my instructors. About my work — 
they all tell me I can get high marks, and I do 
every now and then, but somehow I don't seem 
able to keep up my standard every day — I do 
some very good work, and then some very poor. 
But I think that will take care of itself as time 
goes on, and as I learn how to bring out the most 
of my knowledge. 

Football has not been a success so far, and I 
cannot blame anyone but myself for it. I am still 
on the squad, but Coach Olcott practically does 
not know I am out. He is looking for the heaviest 
material possible and the hardest-working, and 
somehow I have lost the facility I had at Taft of 
playing hard. Although I have only been in 
about four scrimmages all the time I have been 
out, I have not showed up well in any of them. 
However, I am hoping in the next two weeks — 
the last — to overcome my faults and win the ad- 
miration of the coaches, even if I don't make the 
team — which is in itself of little importance except 
as it leads up to more important work next year. 
I am thinking seriously of practising every day 
for an hour or so on the weights, etc., and then 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

going out for track-running in the Spring. In 
this way, I could develop my muscles so I would 
have a much better chance next year. 

Bob has just told me you have granted him per- 
mission to have the car here. I think that is 
wonderful of you all, and I know he appreciates 
it as he would nothing else. I am sure you will 
have no cause to regret it, and I believe it will do 
him a lot of good, besides making his year about 
twice as happy as otherwise. It certainly will 
be fine if you all will come on for the Harvard 
game at Thanksgiving time. And I am looking 
forward to the happiest Thanksgiving and re- 
union we have ever had. 

Well, I must close this letter, although I would 
like to go on and tell you of the plans I am making 
for this week-end — going up to Waterbury and 
visiting school — yet I will tell you of that after it 
is over. 

Yours lovingly, 

Sam. 

November, 1920. 
Dear Dad: 

I certainly do owe you all good long letters and 
this will be the first of the bunch. 

There has been work every minute since I left 
you and so much of it that when I have relaxed 
I have either laid down to take a nap or else gone 
to the movies to get my mind off things. 

123 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

Basketball has demanded not so much of my 
time but a great deal of my strength. Coming at 
6 P. M. it breaks up the evening so I must do all 
my work in the afternoon, and eat supper about 
7.30. I am playing center in the second fresh- 
man team and my chances for getting my nimier- 
als is very good as we have wonderful material out 
there and a few real stars. (On the first team). I 
have heard it said that we have better material 
than the varsity and having seen their second and 
third teams play a very slow game, I agree em- 
phatically. 

My work — I don't know what to say about it. 
Did I write you my general average was only 78? 
My lowest work in French 71! Well, I'm sure 
that I can do better than that and get better 
marks the next rating but that all depends on my 
killing the mid-year exams. 

I really haven't done an awful lot of work in my 
studies since I saw you all because I have had a 
great amount of outside work. 

I am sorry to hear that you have been so busy 
and have had so much to do. I do hope you will 
not wear yourself out, because that would cause 
much unhappiness all around. You must realize, 
Daddy, that Bob and I want you to do just what 
you think is best for yourself and us both. We 
will not have you sacrificing yourself for us, and 
we wish to rely more on your experience and 
superior judgment than we have in the past. I 

124 



The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

shall always regret that you gave me such a free 
rein when I could not foresee the future myself. 
But in spite of that mistake, I am sure everything 
is coming out all the better on top of it all, and I 
am full of hope and confidence that the future 
will bring many bright things, not only here in 
college for me personally, but for our family, our 
fortunes, and our happiness. 

j|c :ic 9H ^ 9|c 

Please give my love to everyone including the 
dog. 

Your loving son, 

Sam. 

New Haven, Early December, 1921. 
Dear Mother: 

I haven't accomplished as much as I had hoped 
this week. Basketball came at 7 in the evening, 
conflicting with calling on the ShefT. fraternity 
houses, I cut out calling the first three nights, 
and only went over for a little while the last two. 
Tonight, the deciding night, I have not gone over — 
I fear we have not come out too well, since I know 
that all the other houses were pretty well packed, 
and we had lost out on many good men at the end 
of the week. So, in order not to have to feel that 
sharp pang of disappointment, I am staying in 
and typewriting. I have made up all my work 
and had my cards signed by my instructors — that 
is all except one little hour, which will be easy. 

125 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McCJure Jr. 

I had my physical examination tcxiay. The 
University Board of Health, which is well or- 
ganized with a poor bunch of M.D.'s, requires 
everyone to be examined once every year. Then 
they keep records. Today, my doctor noticed 
my skin was slightly yellow -after I had told him 
I had had jaundice, and was tremendously inter- 
ested in what he called a labial palp on my left 
breast. I was much amused. He said it was a 
survival from the days when man had such things 
all down his chest; but I happen to know this one 
was caused by an ingrown hair, which I picked at, 
at the age of about 17. However, I didn't correct 
him, these men of science do so love to make dis- 
coveries that tend to prove their theories. But I 
was reminded by their dentist to tell you to be 
sure and make one or more appointments with 
Dr. Hayden for me some time between the 17th 
of December and the 1st of January. Will you 
please, if it isn't too late? 

It is hard to tell how much progress I am mak- 
ing in basketball but I have been up to every prac- 
tice, and have played in several scrimmages with 
the fourth team. Friday night I shot two baskets, 
and that in about six minutes. I have told the 
Captain. Johnnie Cooper, my very good friend, 
and the coach that I wasn't in too good condition 
so they have not let me overwork. Next week 
it should go better, although I don't want it to 
go too well, or else I would have to go on the 
Christmas trip, and forego most of my vacation. 
126 



The Purlfolii) of Samuel C McCAiire Jr. 

Well, 1 hope you will be entirely well again by 
next Saturday when I shall be mighty glad to see 
you again. 

Lovingly, 

Sam. 

To Robert C. Bates. 

Youngstown, June 25, 1921. 
Dear Bob: 

I opened your letter with some doubt as to 
whether it was for me or not and looked hastily 
for a signature — but in vain. More and more per- 
plexed as I read on, I finally concluded that it was 
from you, my good friend, and remarked sorrow- 
fully to myself that it must be very hot in New 
York!! After a second more careful reading, I 
determined to write you and say that, while I 
like to have my friends compliment me with their 
personal handwriting, yet in your case — knowing 
your facility with the typewriter — I would save 
many precious moments of sweet lazy vacation 
if you would print your thoroughly enjoyable and 
idiotic letters that way. 

But what I admire is not your working in New 
York, your suffering under great heat, your geo- 
graphical errors — lovely as they are to my as you 
would have it — blase — mind, or your chirography 
(I guess that's right) no, not these — it is the spirit 
back of it all that moves me. To think that in the 
midst of the excitement of Wall Street, while 
transacting high finance at the expense of your 

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The Portfolio of Saniiit'l C>. McCUnre Jr. 

health and laboring under the deadening effects of 
nicotine, and the feminine induence— (you did not 
mentictti it, but I take it it's there), you should 
think of making me feel joyous and flattered!! 

Now, having got rid of some of my surplus 'bull,' 
I would say that so far my stmimer is another 
glorious failure so far. I have not cut out to- 
bacco; I have not been able to get rid of my cold — 
in spite of beastly hot weather; I have not suc- 
ceeded in winning much money at golf or bridge, 
or settling up any of my debts . . . Not that I have 
not got hope. Today I went to a local osteopath 
and had my neck twisted into writhing knots, my 
back thumped as with a trip hammer, and my 
whole body so injured that I felt as if some steam 
roller had passed over me. And this afternoon I 
played golf in a foursome of extremely able play- 
ers who were out to get my cash, but I fooled them. 

You don't know and can't guess the real news 
though, the stunning, awe-inspiring news. 1 am 
going to work!! Yes, I am to become an entre' 
proicur and all because Dad has a fann which is 
infested with a marsh and which he is foolish 
enough to want drained. The plan is for me to 
hire a gang of wops, to get hold of a steam ditch 
digger and tile-layer, and to sit around and watch 
them perform ... I expect I may have to get a 
tent and sleep out on said farm in order to get up 
early enough; and unfortunately that will be 
quite a drag as I have been accustomed to rising 

128 



The Porlfnlin of Saniurl (i. Mrdlnrr Jr. 

for a hitc breakfast witli my sister the rest of the 
family havin.u had theirs hours before. 
Yours with extreme unction, 

Sam. 

To R. C. Bales. 

YounRstown. July, 1921. 
Dear Bob: 

The al)ove customary greeting means more, you 
know, than most such; in fact it means a whole lot 
more than words written by my awkward hand can 
ever properly express — especially after reading 
another letter from you which amused and de- 
lighted with its glorious opening burst of ridiculous 
(not RE.) and charming self confidence — (or 
shall I say vanity? ) and which with its tearful, 
patiietically self-pitying finale, so contrary and 
contradictory in spirit, tone, and logic to the prom- 
ising start and better middle or body of the letter 
that it fairly struck me to the heart, causing me to 
exclaim, "not so, Robert", caused me so great 
elation that I immediately arose from my downy, 
hot, couch "driving several fat blood-sucking 
mosquitoes- -who have somehow crept in through 
the screens - to seek shelter, and taking up my 
trusty Waterman, long since grown rusty and 
weak and was inspired like some lazy, inert golf 
ball— to make this (light of fancy. 

Now to explain. No, 1 have not been studying 
the German Poets. Nor am I imitating you; 
that is, not altogether and if so, I am merely 

129 



riif l\)r{folii) of Sdnnifl (i. MciUiin' Jr. 

dead tired haviiiii driven to Cleveland and back 
today some 1(H) miles. We had a line trip ex- 
cept for two blowouts and some bumpy detours. 
But 1 was disappointed. It was purely a shop- 
pin.n jaunt and 1 bought ciuite a little 1 wanted. 
Still I was unable to get anywhere a li.cht— 
looseh -woven sleeveless tennis sweater (not that I 
am playini; but one nuist look well in haniiing 
round the country club) you know the kind that 
Fitz.nerald calls so aptly Tettinii Shirts' in his 
little i;em ol a popular-seller "On to Princeton" 
or no! - its real title is This Side of Milton's Dam 
I M(^an Paradise. (Hope after Shakespeare you 
can stand my punnin.u don't accomplish it very 
often, so you must appreciate it!!) Well, as you 
iiave said before, "inn haps it's all for the best!!" 

As to light summer readinii, 1 have not yet hit 
my stride owing to many diversions, I think the 
real dilliculty is I can find nothini:: to compare 
with our nuichly-beloved text books in Kcon.A., I 
read some of Clyde Fitch and Galsworthy and 
pick up Don Quixote now and then. Am con- 
siderinii exhaustive studv of Moore's poetical 
works l' * "^ ='= * * 

You must really pardon me for ix>kin.i^ fun at 
your letters if you can recoi;ni/e my elusive humor. 
You see, it's a bad habit of mme that has led me 
into trouble with women many a time. But a 
Yale man sureh' should have a savini; sense of 
humor (!!!) An example of how deeply such a 
vvoimd may cut was forced upon me recently when 

130 



riir l*<)rl folio of Somiirl (i McClurr Jr. 

an old friend of mine married, neKleclin« to invite 
me to licr p.-irlics, t'lc, for no olhcr reason Ihari 
that I once told Iut 1 Uiou.uilU her tellers dull and 
insipid, and 1 simply told the truth. 

Yours ever, 

Sam. 

New Haven, riuusday. November 17. 11)21. 

Dear Dad : 

This is just a shorl note which I Jim writiiiK 
hastily to tell you every! hinj; is Koin^ swimming- 
ly. 1 wish you would remember lo have the bank 
send me some check-books, IhouRh. 

>tt * * >H M< 

The Yale-Frincelon K^nne last week was won 
derful, and I only wish you could have seen it. 
Perhaps it is jusi as well, since it was so excit 
inn; the strain miKhl have told on you. 1 know 
that after the Kame was over I was just as tired 
as if I had been up all nii'.hl. I really did Ket 
some sleep the ni^ht before, loo, although the 
SlielT parties ended for me al 1 A. M. 

>|( >H >t( H< >(< 

Well, I Kot this far before 1 remembered Dad 
was away, so I am sending this lo you, Mollier. 

I will write you a loni; leller .ibout Saturday's 
j^ame, and you mi.i',hl forward I his to I<\ither just 
to let him know I'm si ill (). K, 
Yours, with love to all, 

Sam. 
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The Portfolio of Saniufl C McCluir Jr. 

To Robert E. McClure on hearing of the latter's 
illness posttnarkcd New Haven, January 23, 
1922. 

{A hasty note scratched on note-book paper in 
class.) 
Dear old Duck : 

You susceptible old thing, what is it now? Aha 
— Ben Turpin - you have been keeping something 
from me— there were more than shells in those 
oysters!! But dissipation will get anyone in 
time; they always did say that the big athletes 
went that way!! 

I have to hand it to you, old dear, if I may be 
allowed to use slang. You certainly have more 
ways of getting a vacation! Tell me, how much 
does Reed charge for such a diagnosis? If isn't 
too much. I think I'll try it to get out of here!! 

But nothing is so out of place as a jest at a sick- 
bed — guess I'll have to lapse into the profane. 

I mean to say I'm damn sorry to hear of it — 
sorrier yet you got it — but cheer up. it might be 
a lot worse, and it's all for the best somehow. It 
should give you a chance to write a lot and loaf 
still more. 



Lovinglv. 



Sam. 



To Robert E. McClure {written on his last birthday) 

New Haven. March 7, 1922. 
Dear old Fellow : 
Your high-toned and somewhat haughty letter 

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The Portfolio of Samuel (J. McClure Jr. 

reached me several days ago and I have been weigh- 
ing the advisabiUty of continuing our corres- 
pondence. This shows I have weakened, and 
under the Christian influence of Mr. Kent and 
his course in Biblical Lit., I have decided to for- 
give and forget all those who spitefully use me!! 

I had quite the berries of a party last week-end 
— the 25th. Church Owen, a boy from Denver 
and I were the week-end guests of Mrs. John F. 
Havemeyer of Ardsley-on-Hudson. The others 
were Mildred McKinley and Miss Alice Have- 
meyer. It was a fine houseparty -in an ideal 
location— wonderful people. * * * *, 

Outside of this one eventful time I have little 
news. The work is going on like an ever-rolling 
ocean wave on which I ride sometimes half-buried, 
half-emerged; and I only hope it will throw me 
high and dry on a nice sandy beach soon instead 
of drowning me or casting me ruthlessly on the 
sharp jagged rocks of next June. Well, well, 
the boy's a poet! Bob Bates made the Lit. 
Board and has the Editor's Table, so perhaps if 
I do some work I may get somewhere. 

Cheero, old dear — soon we'll be eating clover 
or drinking beer on the Riviera. 

Yours foolishly, 

Sam. 



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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

To Robert E. McClme. 

March 20, 1922. 
Dear Bob: 

Well, now I've gone and done it!! 

Let me explain — but first let me thank you and 
Mickey for the wonderful box of candy which 
arrived here the other day. It was great and we 
are still munching it with loud grunts of satisfac- 
tion and much smacking of lips. But the which, 
the what to which I refer in the genesis of this 
gusty note was the driving on of the Cadillac. 
Yes, actually. My roommate and I found we 
both had a short vacation and we decided to drive 
the car on. My reasons were manifold as you 
can guess — having once argued the question with 
great success — if I remember. 

I particularly want it to attend a wedding in 
Boston on April 20 of Nelson Hooe, at which I am 
to be best man — ahem — as usual!! * * 

Also for the spring house-parties to which I have 
invited M. Church Owen having asked her 
friend. 

Moreover the old golf club argument comes in 
handy!! 

Well, to continue my narrative, we left Youngs- 
town after a short three or four hours stay Thurs- 
day morning. We found Al overworking and 
living in your old house, and grandfather having a 
great time with a good cook and Mrs. Brown to 
look after him. 

Then we drove to Pittsburgh; arrived at 7 P. M. , 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

left at 8, -Drove 'cross Alleghenies to Chambers- 
burg via Lincoln Highway. Arrived two — slept 
next A. M. — at 11 got going. Arrived Philly 
4.30 P. M. Four hundred miles without a hitch — 
wonderful roads — cold. Saw Frank Guthrie and 
Jack Hallowell at Si U house at Penn. Had 
dinner at M's. Left Philly 5 P. M. Then N. Y. 
at 8. Dinner Yale Club. Arrived New Haven 
at 1.30. Cost $28.27 for running expenses and 
$80 for personal — great trip. 

Love, 

Sam. 
**This was the third wedding at which he had 
acted as best man. 

[Excerpts from letter to his brother Robert, written 
at New Haven in May, 1922 {no date).] 

{Ben Turpin—a nickname that grew out of his 
a?nusement at his brother getting 'stung' on a 
suit of clothes.) 
Dear old Ben T.: 

Didn't I write and thank you for the best and 
most delicious box of candy? (Pardon the super- 
latives, the influence is that of Billy Phelps, not 
any vinous fluids.) I am doubly sorry for my 
horrible neglect and hope you will humbly pardon 
me. 

(There follows a description of the Boston 
wedding). 

I have come back here full of the old fight, 
though. Played 18 holes at Waterbury yesterday 

135 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

— out 59, in 53 — Beautiful course, hilly, wind — a 
few long drives. 

Tap Day* is this Thursday. Quod erit demon- 
strandum and Quo Vadis? I shall get Cornelius ** 
to pat me on the back and tell me to go to my room 
for a check book. I haven't decided which I'll 
go. Bones or Keys. Of course if Bones offers me 
first man I guess I can hardly have time to make 
up my mind. 

Say I may come out to spend the summer with 
you or nearby around Colorado somewhere. Think 
you could stand the excitement of it? It's too 
bad they didn't have Class Day Movies in your 
time— then they could compare your Rogers' Peel 
with Ben Turpin's — My best to the wife and child. 

Love, 

Sam. 

* This, of course, was the big Tap Day of his 
class, when men were chosen for the senior societies 

** A well-known college character; collector for 
the laundry company — notorious for his relentless 
persecution of delinquent students. 

To Robert C. Bates. 

Youngstown, July 9, 1922. 
Dear Bob: 

A short but passionate note. To quote Hardy, 
"A man loves with his eyes, a woman with her 
ears!" I have been — but that's a long story. *** 

A long rest in the sweet smelling pines and hem- 
locks amidst the cool Adirondack breezes — ah, my 

136 



The Porljolio of iSarmid (i. McClurc Jr. 

boy, how I envy you. I sleep but fitfully and 
dream many strange and fascinating short dime 
novels always waking to the sound of joyful house- 
hold din with a body illy rested and a conscience 
of nothing done. Ciolf is a horrible game! 

I have not read Jurgen. The Cadillac is on 
its last legs, and about to be traded in. I had 
the somewhat startling news that I am to become 
a bond holder — though not bloated- by the free 
gift of a fond parent who wishes to be saved the 
trouble of depositing my overdrawn allowance. 

Golf is a horrible game! *** 

Golf is really a horrible game. Bob, old man, 
did you get a post card from me some time ago? 
I hope not. Joe Holland — was quite well liked 
by all our best local talent. 

Golf is, I reiterate, a most damnable game, but 
one well worth taking up. 

Keep up the red ink and spill it often in this 
direction. Heartily, if not passionately, 

Sam. 

[The following, so far as is known, is the last let- 
ter he wrote. \ 

To R, C. Bates. 

Postmarked, Youngstown, July 21, '22. 
Dear Bob: 

A slam is always a good opening, so let me say 
that, judging from your last effort at communica- 
tion, your existence must be more physical than 
intellectual. Still, in spite of the B. Shaw style of 
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The l^orljolio of Samuel (i. McClure Jr. 

introduction, your letter called forth several 
chuckles— although I can't quite imagine anyone 
mistaking you for a guide. * * * 

Ho, hum! I heard from James Churchill from 
the Grand Hotel at St. Andrews, Scotland, and 
he said he enjoyed the links there, neglecting to 
inform me of his score wisely. 

I had a slight altercation with the Registrar 
because he wanted to soak me an hour on taking 
20 sick cuts. Have not received my marks yet- 
(just paid my bill for tacks, etc., yesterday). 

Joe Holland will not return to college, he says. 
He has to work in a law office in Denver and study 
at the 'Bowlder' Law School next year — "Long 
may she wave! (he says.) 

I have not heard from Cleve. 

I really envy you up there, Bob, with no auto- 
mobiles. With three on my hands — our nigger 
chauf. is no good, and about to be fired -I have 
my difficulties getting the family around any- 
where. Last Saturday, the Packard came out of 
the shop from a general overhauling; Wednesday, 
the Stearns went in for a new wheel (chauf. skid- 
ded) ; and today it returned while the Caddy went 
in with a horrible knock and a overheating radia- 
tor — (bad looks like a bearing.) So you can 
see I am overworked — almost as much as are the 
mails sending bills to Dad. 

Tomorrow I drive Dad to Madison to look over 
some property. Next week after the house party 
I go on a geology survey down state somewhere 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. IVIcClnre Jr. 

with one of the state assistants for Dad. And 
after that. Father and I go west for three weeks or 
so. 

Hardy's 'Desperate Remedies' is too melo- 
dramatic; his short tales are good. 

I have received no news from or about Cleve, 
but I suppose he is having his usual time in Paris 
and will match tales with Church next fall when 
the evenings call for a fire and 'bull session.' 

What will we have to equal them? 

Nothing, I (ear— But I'm going west soon!! 

Your friend, 
Sam. 

[Extracts from various letters written during the 
last year of his life to a dear friend]. 

October, 1921. 

"Do you ever pray, Ming? I do. Not as 
often as I should, I guess, but every now and then. 
I'm going to make a steady thing of it from now on 
because I need a good friend like Him." 

January, 1922. 

"It seems to me that we must 'play the game,' 
as you once said, and when we do emerge vic- 
torious in our struggle against time and the temp- 
tations we both will meet with, we will be bigger, 
better, and more able to cope with the problems of 
the future." 

January, 1922. 

"You know, I have a theory that it is useless to 
struggle against your fate; rather, that it only 

139 



The Porlfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

makes you more miserable to do so. When you 
know you are going to do something and then 
struggle against it with all your will power and 
overcome it, later you are sorry. But how do you 
know what your fate is? Is it true that you can 
foresee certain things, or not? 

"Sometimes I think there lies the point that 
makes successful men and failures. The power 
of feeling that a certain thing is going to happen, 
of deciding which way to turn the moment you 
feel certain of it, and the ability to stick to a de- 
cision once made, makes all the difference in the 
world. 

"I was quite interested in a sentence of Conrad's 
the other day when I picked up his 'Lord Jim.' 
He spoke of men with soft spots in them. You 
know most all men have them some place and in 
more ways than you'd think. Sometimes when 
I look around me, I dislike all men, except a few, 
and despise all New Haveners in the town gen- 
erally for being what Swift called 'Yahoos.' In 
addition to having soft spots in their brains, they 
are thoroughly weak and degenerate. You see 
crowds of men loitering on the streets at all hours 
of the night — crowds going to bum movies, or poor 
baseball games on Sunday and not a clean intelli- 
gent person among them." 
Undated. 

"Personally, I think it much nicer to seek to 
have a good time, or as many good times as you 
can; and by 'good time' I mean that which gives 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

you joy not only at that time— but also later — 
one that your conscience can stamp with hearty 
approval." 

Undated. 

"But I think that there could be nothing finer 
than to work out a day-dream in spite of all the 
difficulties, to have everything come out as you 
planned or nearly so. Just because man cannot 
attain perfection is no reason why he shouldn't 
try." _ 

To Mrs. Alfred McClure. 

[The following is an extract from a letter he wrote 
at New Haven to his grandmother, Mrs. Eleanor 
Wallace McClure, on her eighty-third birthday, 

March 16, 1922. \ 

Grandmother, remember that we all love you 
and that some day we will all be together again 
and enjoy each other's presence much the more for 
this little absence. 

So, take good care of yourself and get as much 
pleasure as you can from each of the dear old 
things you love, from each sermon, each prayer- 
meeting, every act of kindness of those about you. 

And never forget the great reward that will be 
yours, in the end, when the sun finally sets on 
your life, that has been so full of glorious memories. 
And remember, it is the dawns and the sunsets of 
life that are the most beautiful always. 

Your devoted grandson, 
Sam. 

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APPENDIX 



The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

The newspaper account of the tragedy which 
closed the life of Samuel G. McClure, Jr., to- 
gether with two editorial articles on the heroism 
of his going, are included herewith to preserve 
them in permanent form. They follow: 

Editorial article from The Youngstown Telegram, 
July 26, 1922. 

SYMPATHY 

Along with other friends, members of The Tele- 
gram force extend their heartfelt sympathy to 
Samuel G. McClure, former publisher of this news- 
paper, and to the stricken mother in the death of 
their son, Samuel G. McClure, Jr. 

Mere expressions of sympathy, whether in words 
or deeds, are limited in their worth. Whoever 
has seen the heavy, silent hand of death laid on 
his household knows that not all the acts and ex- 
pressions of consolation the world may offer can 
do more than add a little to the fortitude with 
which the sufferers must bear their loss. They 
cannot fill the void. 

This is true when death takes any toll. It is 
brought home in greater degree when a parent 
mourns for a child, for no other sorrow can equal 
this. 

If there is a thought we can add that will lighten 
at times the grief of the father and mother it is that 
their boy who was taken in the fine flush of young 
manhood had lived the life of a clean young 
American youth and met his end a hero trying to 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClnre Jr. 

save another. They will sorrow Ihat he is dead 
but will never have to sorrow that he lived. 

Editorial article from The Ohio State Journal, 
July 30, 1922. 

A YOUNG HERO S DEATH 
Samuel G. McClure, Jr., son of the former 
editor of The State Journal, lost his life a few days 
ago in Lake Erie but he died a hero. A boatload of 
young people capsized in the water during a wind 
squall. As the boat was overturned McClure 
received a hard blow from an oar, the long sweep 
striking him on the head. Despite the injury he 
went to the assistance of one of the young women 
and fought his way with her through the rough 
waters until she was able to reach shore alone. 
His effort cost him his life and he was drowned. 

It was another illustration of that high courage 
and devotion where one gives his life for another. 
Those who were with him in the boat and who 
watched the battle from the shore join in the dec- 
laration that he died a hero, giving up his own 
life that the young woman might be saved. In 
this as in other instances the pity is that such 
brave souls are not spared. The world has need 
for all such. 

The following is the newspaper account of the 
death of Samuel G. McClure, Jr., published in The 
Youngstown Telegram of July 26, 1922: 

Samuel G. McClure, Jr., died a hero. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

He was drowned at Madison-on-the-Lake Tues- 
day after making a valiant attempt to save a girl 
companion when their boat capsized. 
Four Are Saved. 

Four members of the party were saved . Friends 
and a physician worked two hours attempting to 
revive McClure after his body was washed ashore 
and when his heart beat faintly. 

Others in the boat at the time of the accident 
were Miss Mary Wick Sampson, 416 Wick; Miss 
Helen Lomasney, Cohasset rd.; Frank Guthrie, 
273 N. Heights and Richard Grant, 1357 Fifth 
ave. Miss Henrietta Hoops of Wilmington, Del., 
guest of Miss Sampson and Mrs. McClure, who 
was chaperoning the party had not made the trip 
in the boat. 

About 11 a. m. the party left the Old Tavern 
at Unionville near Madison, in their bathing suits 
and started out in the boat. The Lake was rough 
and, it is said, after they had gone out a con- 
siderable distance the boat started to fill with 
water. 

Members of the party decided the load was too 
great for the boat and young McClure, who was 
an excellent swimmer left the boat. The water 
continued to come in so Richard Grant stepped on 
the edge of the boat and plunged into the water, 
a little later the water-laden craft overturned. 

Tries to Rescue Girl. 
All of the party were able to swim but the girls 
were given assistance since the boat was consider- 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

able distance from shore and the waves were run- 
ning high. Grant seized Miss Sampson and took 
her to shore, McClure caught Miss Lomasney who 
was struggling to keep above the surface and struck 
out for shore. The girl noticed McClure was hav- 
ing difficulty in swimming and finally she tore her- 
self away and struggled alone, Guthrie took her to 
shore. 

When all had reached shore it was discovered 
McClure was missing. His body was washed in a 
short time later. Over McClure's left eye was a 
wound. Other occupants of the boat believe 
when it capsized, McClure was struck by an oar 
which rendered him incapable of aiding in the 
rescue of Miss Lomasney and later of reaching 
shore himself. 

Miss Lomasney's Story. 

"We were so frightened and scared I scarcely 
know what happened," said Miss Helen Lomasney. 

"When the boat capsized, we started to swim. 
Samuel kept trying to right the boat until he saw 
that the girls were getting weaker. When he 
swam up to me he acted queer, but I was so 
frightened I could not tell what was wrong. 

"I believe he must have been struck by an oar 
or the boat while trying to right it. 

Struck by Waves 

"As fast as we started for the shore a heavy wave 
would push us back and we could not make any 
headway. We were getting weaker every minute. 

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The Portfolio of Samuel G. McClure Jr. 

"We kept calling for help, but the people on 
shore thought we were just joking because so many 
people had done this for fun, I don't know what 
happened after that." 

Miss Lomasney was ill Wednesday, suffering 
from the nervous shock. Miss Mary Wick Samp- 
son, the other girl in the boat, was too weak and 
ill to give any account of the accident. 

Never Regained Consciousness 
McClure never regained consciousness. At- 
tendants say the only sign of life he showed was to 
slightly move an eyelid. With renewed hope, 
they continued work on his body for two hours. 
Dr. John Winans, Madison physician who at- 
tempted to revive McClure said his heart con- 
tinued beating two hours after he was brought to 
shore. 

While efforts were being made to revive McClure 
a call was sent to Painesville for a pulmotor. The 
fire truck started to Madison with the pulmotor, 
but in his haste to reach the lake, the driver ran 
the truck into the ditch. 

On the arrival of McClure's body in Youngs- 
town, Dr. C. M. Reed examined the contusion of 
the left temple and eye and is of the opinion the 
injury was suffered at least 15 minutes before 
death. This upholds the theory that this was the 
cause, or contributed in a great part in McClure's 
exhaustion and drowning. 



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